A Third Counting of Days
by paganpunk2
Summary: The third annual short story countdown to Christmas, featuring the Batfam and friends in a variety of holiday tales. Rated T for language and violence in select chapters.
1. Kindness is Magic, Part 1

**Author's Note:** **Welcome to the third annual Batman Christmas Countdown, where the Batfamily acts as every fan's advent calendar!** **Be sure to either follow the story or check back regularly for updates, which will occur every day between now and the 25th.**

 **If you missed the previous countdowns, or if you just want two or three Batman holiday stories a day, check out the 2013 and 2014 collections, entitled 'A Counting of Days' and 'A Second Counting of Days,' respectively.**

 **We're starting this year's collection with a two-parter starring Dick and Jason. This little story is set prior to Jason's death, and for the purposes of the tale Dick is in his first year with the BPD. Jason will make his appearance in tomorrow's chapter.**

 **Happy reading, and happy holidays!**

* * *

Dick hadn't had to think when he'd heard that the Bludhaven Police Department participated in an annual program to deliver gifts and a little Christmas magic to the city's underprivileged children. He'd signed up to help on the spot, and it was for that reason that he found himself wearing a green velveteen costume and lugging a heavy sack of wrapped toys into an orphanage auditorium on his day off. Anticipation and nervousness mingled in his stomach as he glanced towards the stage, where a tree lot that also sponsored the event had already set up and decorated a tall noble fir. The afternoon's procedure had been explained to him, but this was still his first time participating. If everything would just go smoothly so that the kids could all have a good time…

"Um…excuse me?"

There weren't supposed to be any little ones in the room yet, but voice that had spoken from behind him was young. Turning around, Dick found a cherub-faced girl waiting. His heart melted as her bright emerald eyes took in his clothing and went wide. "'Scuse me," she repeated herself. "Are you one of Santa's elves?"

"I sure am," he answered. Setting down his heavy bag, he knelt to match the girl's height. She couldn't have been more than six, and the excitement she was giving off brightened their secondhand surroundings noticeably. Dick had already been smiling, but his expression widened as he studied her. "And I'll bet I don't need to check the list to know you've been good this year. Is that right?"

She bit her lip. "I _tried_ to be good."

"Yeah? Then I'm positive that there will be something special for you under the tree in a little while."

A new tone broke in before the child had a chance to reply. "Hey, Twinkle-toes, you gonna help with this stuff?"

Dick glanced over his shoulder to find that his partners for the afternoon had made it to the stage and were already placing gifts under the tree. "I'll be right there," he called, then returned his attention to the girl. "Now look, sweetheart, I know you're looking forward to later-"

"But I'm not allowed to be in here," she finished for him. "I know it was bad to sneak in after you, but I wanted to know if you're _really_ an elf. Only Jacob – he's my friend, he lives here too – he says that Santa's not real, and elves neither. And I don't want him to be right, but he's right about lots of things, and…" She took a deep breath. "And…well…is your name really Twinkle-toes? Because that sounds like an elf name, and I think maybe Jacob will believe me if I tell him I met an elf with a name."

Twinkle-toes was, in fact, what Davis had been threatening to call him if they ended up volunteering together, so it caused Dick no guilt to nod now. "That's me! And up there," he gestured to the stage, "are Sparkles and Bob. They're elves, too."

"Bob?" The girl wrinkled her nose. "That's the janitor's name!"

Dick laughed. "I'm going to tell him you said that. We've been trying to get him to change it for years now, you know, but Bob's adamant. He calls himself the practical elf." Bob Davis was a no-nonsense kind of guy, and his blunt personality came through even when he was wearing green velveteen and pointed shoes. It was for this reason that he'd been paired for elf duty with Dick and Susan Standish, who were vivacious enough to make up for his all-business exterior.

"He won't be mad at me? I wasn't making fun of him, honest!"

"He won't be mad at you," Dick soothed. "He's an elf, remember? He's got a heart of gold, even if he doesn't show it much." He wasn't exaggerating. This was Davis' fifteenth year passing out presents with the BPD's Giving Elf Program, which more than proved that he wasn't gruff to the core. Still, Dick couldn't resist teasing him about his stony expressions whenever he got the chance. The girl's frank comment was most definitely going to be shared once he joined the others. "Now, you'd better go back where you're supposed to be, huh? I don't want you to get in trouble."

"Okay. But I'll see you later, right, Twinkle-toes?"

"Absolutely." With that reassurance, the girl skipped to the door and disappeared into the main hall of the orphanage.

Standish was chuckling when Dick joined her and Davis beside the tall tree at center stage. "There goes Grayson," she joked, "getting all the girls as usual."

Dick crossed his arms in a mock huff. "I'll have you know that for the duration of this event I will only respond to Twinkle-toes."

"Oh, good. I was hoping we were going to really commit this year." Standish pulled a pointy felt hat shot through with silvery lines and festooned with glitter from her pocket. "There," she said as she straightened it out and then pulled it firmly down over her ears. "Now I'm ready to be Sparkles. Nobody call me anything else, got it? Even if the kids aren't here."

"Got it. And Davis," Dick turned towards the other man, "'Bob' isn't very convincing as an elf name according to the kiddo I was just chatting with."

Davis grimaced. "Well I guess she'll just have to have a little faith, won't she?"

"She says it's the janitor's name."

"The _janitor_? Ah, hell." A beat passed, then Davis shrugged. "You know what? That's fine. I'm a janitor elf, and my name is Bob."

"Elves don't need janitors," Standish argued as she plumped up the bow on a present. "They have magic for that."

"Then I'm a magic janitor elf."

"Bob the magic janitor elf." Dick shook his head, but he was grinning. "Love it."

"Good," Davis said, sending a nod towards the doors at the other end of the room. "Because there's no more time to debate my name and profession without destroying the illusion for the kids."

Sure enough, double lines of children were being led into the auditorium. The smallest came first, tiny three- and four-year olds who struggled to climb up into their seats in the front rows. Behind them came the school-age groups, which grew progressively taller as they filed inside. Among them was the girl who had sneaked in to talk to Dick. Spotting him, she raised her hand in a wave and jumped up and down to make sure that he saw her.

He waved back, and she pointed him out eagerly to the boy walking beside her. There was no question that the boy was Jacob, since his brow drew down skeptically at whatever it was that she was telling him. Determined not to let him destroy the vision of the North Pole that some of his peers were still clinging to, Dick waved to him, too. Reality was harsh for children who lived under the auspices of social services; if there was anything he could do to extend their Christmas dreams just a bit longer, he would do it.

Bubbling, high-pitched voices filled the air, but there was surprisingly little rowdiness even once the full population of the orphanage was present. There weren't enough seats available despite the fact that this facility only housed those up to age twelve, so the oldest residents stood against the back wall alongside the staff. When the last of them had entered and taken their place the director shut the doors and strode to the front of the room. Each row went quiet as she passed them, a mark the control she had over the children in her care. "…Are we ready?" she asked in a low tone once she'd joined the trio of elves on stage.

"Everything's set," Standish whispered back.

"Who's taking the mic after me?"

Standish and Davis exchanged a look. "Give it to Twinkle-toes over there," Davis smirked. "He's cut out for this sort of thing, and it's his first year besides."

"Throwing the rookie to the wolves? That's just mean," Standish remarked, but she was smiling. "What do you think, Twinkle-toes? You game?"

Dick was caught off guard by the suggestion that he greet the waiting crowd and explain the procedure to them, but once it had been made he embraced it. What could be more fun than pumping up a bunch of adorable kids who were already high on Christmas adrenaline? Besides, if he played his role right he might be able to infuse a little holiday magic into the day of even the staunchest unbelievers. "I'll do it," he agreed with an enthusiastic nod. "Bring it on."

* * *

An hour later Dick looked out over his work with a sense of great satisfaction. His eager address had nearly incited an anticipatory riot, but all two-hundred odd residents of the orphanage had now received their presents. They sat or stood in tight little groups, showing their gifts off to one another and enjoying themselves. There was a smile on every face in the room, including that of the strict-looking director. As Dick watched she sat down beside a small boy and admired the dinosaur figurine he was holding. He made it roar and attack her hand, and she laughed. Previously invisible lines appeared around her mouth, their faintness an indicator of how rarely she indulged in joy.

How many children, Dick wondered, had that woman watched pass into and out of her care? She was far from young – Alfred's age, possibly, although caring for so many others may have worn her down prematurely – but when she laughed something of the girl she had once been shone through. The passion that had kept her in her emotionally challenging line of work for decades was clear in that moment, too, and Dick's respect for her swelled. She might come off as cold and dominating, but she was clearly no imitator of Dickens' hard and hypocritical Mr. Bumble. It was a refreshing change from the usual stories he heard about social services in Bludhaven.

No matter how excellent and loving an administrator the director might be, though, her charges were numerous. Some of the older children might have memories of holidays with their families to draw on, but for the youngest residents this afternoon was the closest thing they knew to a Christmas morning. The gifts they had received today were probably the only ones they got all year. One-on-one interaction must have been more lacking still, considering how few adults there were to youngsters in the room. These kids wouldn't get fresh cookies handed to them by patient mothers or fall asleep on the laps of loving fathers when the tree and the stockings were spent. Their holiday would be short, structured, and parentless.

It was a far cry from December 25th at Wayne Manor, which he was only familiar with due to the greatest streak of luck in his life. He'd always tried not to take his good fortune for granted, but now it struck him how easily he might have been left to grow up like the children filling the auditorium in front of him. It had been the intense love and attention that he had received from Bruce and Alfred that had allowed him to heal after the murder of his parents. How much more difficult would his recovery had been, he wondered, if he had been but one of many who needed comforted?

"'Scuse me? Mr. Twinkle-toes?"

Startled out of his reverie, Dick looked down. The little girl who had sneaked into the auditorium after him earlier peered up at him, her eyes hopeful. Her hand was clasped around the wrist of the boy at her side as if she had pulled him onto the stage after her. "Hey, kiddo," he smiled. "Is this your friend you were telling me about?"

"This is Jacob."

Dick turned his attention onto the unbeliever. "Hello, Jacob. Did you like your present?"

"Yeah. But I know it didn't come from Santa."

"Oh? What makes you think that?"

"Because Santa's not real. And neither are elves."

"Really?" Dick reached up and touched his hat with a frown. "I feel pretty real." He examined his hands carefully, then went on. "And I don't think I'm disappearing. Am I disappearing?"

"No," the girl giggled. "You're right there! See, Jacob?"

"But that's because you're just a person," Jacob countered. "He's just a volunteer, Lacey. They dress up every year and go around to all the orphanages to give out presents. He's not an elf, he's just a person in a costume."

Lacey dropped Jacob's wrist and took half a step away from him. Her mouth had turned downward, and as Dick watched her lower lip began to tremble. "Stop it," she begged. "He _is_ an elf. He told me so, and I believe him!"

"Well, then, you're dumb."

"Whoa, hey, now." Dick crouched down between the two children and glanced at each in turn. He'd hoped that he could infuse a bit of Christmas magic into Jacob's day, but it was clear that the boy was beyond convincing. What mattered now was that this childhood spat not be allowed to grow into a chasm of disagreement that might end the pair's friendship. "Nobody here is dumb. Jacob, listen to me for a second, okay? You may not believe in Santa or elves or the North Pole, but Lacey does. And that's fine. And Lacey, I know you believe, but it looks like Jacob really doesn't. And that's fine, too. The only time it's not fine is when you let the differences in what you believe come between you.

"Now I know you're friends, because if you weren't you wouldn't be trying so hard to make each other see things your way. You want to agree with each other, but you both think that your version of things is the right one. You both want to make sure that your friend is on the right path. Right?"

"Yes," Lacey sniffled.

Jacob blinked at her for a moment, his expression becoming guilty as a tear slipped down her cheek. "...Yes," he agreed.

"Well, here's the thing, guys; sometimes people have different beliefs, and they hold to those beliefs because...well, because that's what they believe. But that doesn't mean that two people with different beliefs can't be friends. It just means that they have to agree to disagree, and leave it at that. The most important thing is that you don't use your beliefs to hurt each other. So Jacob, don't call Lacey dumb because she has a different belief than you do. Lacey, if Jacob doesn't agree with one of your beliefs then don't try and force your viewpoint on him. When you do those things, you hurt each other even though you're trying to help."

Dick took up one of each child's hands and joined them together. The small fingers intertwined, and Jacob and Lacey gave each other tiny smiles. "You don't have to believe the same things to be friends," Dick reiterated. "You just have to care about each other. Sometimes that means that you have to accept that the other person doesn't believe the same thing you do, and that that's okay. Okay?"

"I think it's silly to believe in Santa Claus and all that stuff," Jacob said. "But... Lacey's my friend anyway."

"And I think you're silly for not believing in Santa, because you won't get any presents next year if you really don't," Lacey replied, "but you're my friend anyway, too."

"The older kids don't believe," Jacob pointed out, "and they still got presents."

Dick winced. The boy was right, but had he been listening at all just now? Instead of becoming upset again, though, Lacey merely looked pensive. "Hmm," she considered. "You're right, they did. How does that work, Twinkle-toes? I thought you had to believe to get presents? That's why I was so worried when Jacob said he didn't believe anymore."

He thought fast. "Well...Santa's whole thing is kindness, isn't it? He's kind, and he gives presents to people who are kind."

"Uh-huh. But what about the kind people who don't believe in him?"

"It's like we talked about. It's not very kind to exclude people just because they don't believe what you do. Since Santa is kind, he wouldn't leave good kids out of the fun of Christmas for not believing what he wants them to believe."

"That would be mean," Lacey said with a slow, serious nod. "And Santa's not mean. That makes sense." The last lingering signs of confusion cleared from her expression, and she turned to Jacob. "You want to go play with our presents now?"

"We don't have to talk about Santa anymore, do we?"

"No. We can talk about other things."

"Okay."

The two children climbed down from the stage and started back to their seats. Dick watched them go, a soft smile arcing his lips. He'd come here today to pass out toys, but in the end he'd had the opportunity to give Jacob and Lacey the far more important gifts of time and attention. Better still, his pep talk on tolerance seemed to have done the trick. With any luck that lesson would stay with them long after the things they'd unwrapped had been outgrown.

Davis came up beside him and threw him a nod. "I saw what you did there."

"What?"

"With the kids. The argument. I saw how you resolved it." A beat passed. "...You're a damn good elf, Twinkle-toes."

Dick's smile grew into a grin. "Thanks, Bob. You're not half-bad yourself. Even if you do insist on being a magic janitor."

Davis let out the fullest laugh that Dick had ever heard him give, and the afternoon felt complete.

* * *

 **Author's Note: For those who aren't familiar with Charles Dickens, Mr. Bumble was the poorhouse beadle (director) in _Oliver Twist_.**


	2. Kindness is Magic, Part 2

A few days later Dick was curled up in front of the television in the den of Wayne Manor. Bruce would be home in a couple of hours, and Alfred was due back from picking Jason up at school anytime, but until they arrived he could indulge in made-for-TV holiday movies without worrying about pleasing anyone but himself. The low-budget picture on screen at the moment was especially sentimental, and Dick was loving it.

It wasn't long before his solitude was invaded. "What are you watching?" Jason's voice asked from the doorway.

"It's a Christmas movie. I don't remember what it's called, though. I hadn't heard of it before." Pulling up his legs from where they'd been sprawled across the couch, Dick gestured for his brother to come into the room. "You want to finish it up with me? It should be almost over, I turned it on right after Alfred left to get you."

Jason shrugged and sat down beside him. "Anything's better than homework."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that..."

Neither of them spoke until the credits rolled. It was Jason who broke the silence. "...Dick?"

"Hmm?"

"I only saw ten minutes of that movie, and I think I might puke. How did you sit through two hours of it?"

"Aw, it wasn't _that_ bad."

"It was so sappy I'm surprised the TV isn't dripping onto the rug."

"Well, you did show up just in time for the sappiest part. But it was still kind of sweet."

"Too sweet." Jason paused. "Why do you watch stuff like that, anyway?"

"I don't know. Those kinds of movies make me happy, I guess."

"But...I mean, Santa, and miracles, and families coming back together through ridiculous series of coincidences...you don't really believe all of that, do you?"

"I don't believe in Santa. I'm pretty sure not even he could evade all of the security that Bruce and Alfred have on this place. We'd have caught him by now. As for miracles and crazy coincidences..." He shrugged. "I don't know, Jay. I've seen a lot of things I can't explain. Bruce always says that miracles and magic are just what people call things they don't have the scientific knowledge to understand, and I tend to agree with him, but...there's a little part of me that wishes it was something more."

"Even though you know they don't, you still want to believe that miracles and magic exist?"

"Yeah. I do. I suppose syrupy movies let me pretend like I _do_ believe it for a little while. Since I'm already suspending disbelief for the story, it's easier to suspend it for the whole concept of miracles, too." A beat passed. "What about you?"

"Miracles and magic are bullshit. But..." The teen's eyes slid away for a moment. "But I sort of get why you might wish you could believe in them. I mean, both our lives would be pretty different if we'd gotten a miracle or two in them earlier on. It might have been nice."

Dick's mouth turned down. He knew that Jason's childhood had been far less idyllic than his own, and he didn't get the sense that his brother was denigrating the life they had now, but his comment was still bothersome. "Don't you think we _did_ get miracles, though, Jay?" he asked quietly. "After all, we both got Bruce."

"I wouldn't call Bruce a miracle. I'm not saying that to sound ungrateful," Jason clarified quickly, "I just mean that he's a guy who picked up a couple of kids and...well..."

"Made them his own?"

"Yeah. That's great, don't get me wrong, but it's not a miracle. It's just something that people do. If it wasn't there wouldn't be things like adoption agencies."

"I suppose. But the thing is, he picked _us._ Well, in your case _you_ sort of picked _him_ by trying to nick the Batmobile's wheels," Dick smirked, "but still. He chose to keep you, the same as he chose to keep me. And I can't figure out why he chose us in particular. He sure as heck didn't use an adoption agency."

The auditorium full of happy young faces he'd looked out over a few days before entered his mind's eye. "He sees hundreds of kids who need homes every year, Jay, but he picked us to make his own instead of any of them. And a lot of those kids that he could have picked but didn't never got picked by anyone. They grew up in institutions or on the streets instead. We could have been, or we still could be, like that, if it wasn't for Bruce. There was no logical reason for him to ever meet either of us, but he met us both. There was no logical reason for him to take us in – it was illogical of him both times that he did so, in fact, considering the Batman aspect of his life – but he did it anyway. The odds of so many coincidences fitting together like that, not once but twice...they're slim. Very, very slim."

Jason blinked at him for a long moment. "You're about as sappy tonight as that movie was," he remarked finally. It would have been a cruel comment to make after an outpouring such as Dick's had the words carried so much as a hint of teasing about them. They came out pensively, though, and Dick smiled. He'd made his little brother stop and think, which was always an accomplishment with someone as independent-minded as Jason.

"It's funny," Dick said, "but I hadn't really thought about how absurdly lucky I was – how absurdly lucky we both were – until a few days ago. Well, I'd thought about it, but I guess I didn't truly realize it before. I didn't _feel_ it, not...not the way I do now. It didn't feel like a miracle before."

"What changed?"

"I became an elf."

The expression Jason put on in response to that announcement was so incredulous that Dick burst out laughing despite the serious nature of their conversation. When he'd sobered, he explained. "Sorry. I meant what I said, though; the thing that made me realize the depth of our good fortune was becoming an elf."

As he laid out the tale of his trip to the orphanage he found that details he had overlooked at the time stood out in his memory. All children wore excited looks at Christmas time, but there had been something extra burning in the eyes of the facility's older residents; the anticipation, perhaps, of having something brand new and just for themselves, which was a rare privilege indeed when one had lived in institutions for years. The little boy with the toy dinosaur had clung to the director's skirt with the desperation of a castaway holding onto a floating barrel in high seas as the lines of children had exited through the double doors, and Dick was reminded of his calculations regarding one-on-one interaction. There were so many little gifts in his and Jason's day to day lives – rooms and possessions that were wholly their own, listening ears and caring hands whenever they wanted or needed to take advantage of them – and he felt as though he'd never properly acknowledged them before.

"We did get a miracle, Jay," he whispered when his story was finished. "I know that probably sounds like the movie talking, but I think maybe my trip to the orphanage made my suspension of disbelief a bit easier to turn on. The point is that, whether miracles have some divine or cosmic source or are just inexplicable chains of otherwise unrelated events, I think that we both got one.

"I don't want to imagine living like those kids do. I don't want to think about what it would have been like if I hadn't had Bruce and Alfred to answer all the questions I had growing up, and the questions I still have now. I know you have more experience with lacking parental guidance than I do, and with feeling like you don't have a place to call your own, too, but also I know that you understand where I'm coming from here. Don't you?"

"...I do," Jason said slowly. "Life's a lot better here than in an orphanage or out on the streets, and not just for material reasons. But I still don't think it was a miracle, no matter what definition you want to assign that word. There's too much baggage there, too much to think about. Bruce took us in; that's that. It doesn't matter to me why it happened, or how, only that it happened and we're here now. Call it a miracle if you want, but I'm not going to."

Dick chuckled. "I guess we'll just have to be like Jacob and Lacey then, huh?"

"What, agree to disagree?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. But I have to admit that I'm surprised you backed what you believe over telling the truth when you were talking to them."

Taken aback by that accusation, Dick shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"You basically just outed yourself as believing in stuff like miracles and magic, like Lacey does. But you know for a fact that there's no such things as Santa Claus or elves. That's not an issue of belief for a man who's stood at both the geographical and the magnetic north pole. Despite that, you let her go on thinking that Santa and magic are real."

"...And?"

"And so you let your beliefs override the truth."

"So what, you think I should have broken her heart and said that Jacob was right?"

"Well..."

Dick shook his head emphatically. "Santa's probably the kindest guy she's ever heard of. If I'd have killed him, I might have killed the idea of kindness altogether for her. You know how kids bundle all those sorts of things together. C'mon, Jason," he cajoled. "You couldn't have done it, either, even if you don't believe a miracle has ever occurred anywhere. You couldn't have looked that sweet kid in the face and told her that Santa and his magic aren't real."

"Maybe not, but still. She'll find out someday, and it might only hurt her more then."

"Or maybe she'll be able to separate kindness and Santa by then, and she won't need the myth anymore."

"...Maybe."

"We're agreeing to disagree on this again, aren't we?"

"Yeah. But you know, something you said just now was interesting."

"What's that?"

"The thing about Santa and kindness. I don't like to focus on why I'm here, like I said before. It's enough that I'm here at all. But if someone put a gun to my head and ordered me to explain the mechanics of it, the simplest answer would be that Bruce is a basically kind person. Right?"

"I couldn't argue with that if I wanted to. Go on."

"Well...I don't believe in miracles. But I am starting to believe in kindness. It used to be a lot harder for me to do that – believe in kindness, I mean – but I think that was because I saw it so rarely. Here, though...here I see it a lot. I guess it's like you and your Bruce-miracle; the more you see the results of something, the more you believe in it. And kindness...kindness creates a lot of results. I'm not saying it's always the right answer, but sometimes it works when nothing else will. I don't understand why, but sometimes it works."

"What are you saying?" Dick asked with a clever grin. "That sometimes kindness is like magic?"

"Nice try at closing the circle, Dick," Jason grimaced back. "But I said I believe in kindness, not that I believe in magic. Let's just leave it at that, okay?"

"Okay. But Jay?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"I think maybe you feel some things more deeply now than you did before we talked, just like I did after my stint as an elf. Can we agree on that, at least?"

Jason looked away briefly. When he met Dick's gaze again, a tiny smile was arching his lips. "Yeah. We can agree on that."

"Good." They stood then, and Dick slung an arm across the teen's shoulders. "I'm proud of you, little brother. It's not easy for you to change your opinions, but you did a good job just now."

"I wouldn't say I changed my opinions. It's more like I just realized what they really are a little more."

Even that was a hell of an achievement in Dick's opinion. There had been a time after Jason had first arrived at the Manor when the conversation they had just had would have been impossible. They would still have argued, yes, but Jason wouldn't have been content with agreeing to disagree. He would have pushed his point until his opponent was exhausted, then moved in for the proverbial kill. Somewhere along the line since then he must have picked up on his own version of Jacob and Lacey's tolerance lesson and learned to apply it to his daily life. "Well, I'm proud of you anyway."

Jason ducked his head, and Dick would have sworn he saw a faint blush appear. "Hey, Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"If elves did exist, you'd make a good one."

Dick squeezed him tight for a second. "Thanks, Jay. I appreciate that. But I'm not the only one here who'd make a good elf. In fact, I think you'd make a good enough one to qualify for Santa's special taste-testing squad."

"Special taste-testing squad?"

"Yeah. There are lots of people in the world who would love to kill a beacon of kindness, so Santa's got to have people who taste all of the cookies that get left out for him on Christmas, right?"

Jason rolled his eyes, but Dick could feel him shaking with restrained mirth. "Sure. That's not ridiculous at all."

"So...should we go be good elves and see if Alfred's slipping poison into the cookies? You know, to protect Santa?"

"Heh. Only if you don't tell him that that's why we need cookies."

Dick grinned broadly. "You got it. We'll keep the elfin taste-testing squad our secret. Until Bruce gets home, at least."

"Because he won't think you've lost your mind or anything."

"Not if I offer him a spot on the team, he won't."

Jason opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it. "You know," he said finally, "you might have a point there..."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Tomorrow we'll have fun with a naughty Damian. Happy reading!**


	3. Secret Season

Damian slipped through the darkened back hallways of Wayne Manor without making a sound. There was little chance that he would be caught even if he ran, since Father, Grayson, and Drake were out on patrol and Pennyworth was in the Batcave awaiting their return, but he tread lightly anyway. What he was preparing to do was very much against the rules of Christmas, and while he didn't feel guilty about his plan he saw no reason not to be cautious in its execution.

He had watched over the past two winters as Pennyworth made gifts still clad in their store bags and boxes disappear into the depths of the house. The packages never reappeared until Christmas Eve when, dressed in all the finery of the season, they migrated in the dead of night to their places beneath the tree. Determined to find out where the secret stash was this year, Damian had already conducted several clandestine searches. All of them had ended in disappointment and a return to square one in his thinking. No matter how grand and imposing it was, though, Wayne Manor had boundaries; with every unsuccessful quest the list of possible hiding places grew shorter.

This time he was certain he had found the solution. After breakfast the previous morning he had overheard Grayson asking the butler what his plans were for the day. Pennyworth had replied that he had 'some work to do upstairs,' which Damian would have taken for a simple vague explanation had he not spent the last two weeks scrutinizing every word that came out of Alfred's mouth for clues. He'd peeked into the kitchen just in time to see a knowing smirk cross Dick's face. The look cemented his certainty that there was something secret between the lines of their conversation, so he'd lingered in the hall until Alfred emerged. Ghosting along at a safe distance, he followed the butler until he vanished into a second floor room on the back side of the house.

Damian had memorized the majority of the mansion shortly after his arrival, but this far-off utility space was an unknown. The easiest course would have been to knock on the door and request entry, but the conspiratorial undertone of the adults' private talk suggested that such an attempt would be folly today. He would have to take a more roundabout path to find out what lay behind the closed door before him.

He made his way to the cave, where Dick was working on a JLA project. "…Grayson?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Where did Pennyworth go?"

"He's upstairs."

Feigning ignorance, Damian pressed. "Yeah, but where upstairs? I looked in all the normal places, and I couldn't find him."

Dick finally looked away from his computer. "What are you looking for Alfred for? If you need something, I can get it for you."

"I just…wanted to talk to him about something."

A slight frown appeared. "I'll be the first to admit that I'm no Alfred, but you and I normally get things figured out together. Can you talk to me instead?"

"Uh…" Damian hadn't expected Dick to question his desire to find the butler, and it appeared that his response had hurt the man's feelings. That hadn't been his intention in the least, and he said the first thing he could think of that might undo his misstep. "Not really. It's…it's about you. And Christmas."

"Me and Christmas?" Dick's frown reversed itself into a pleased smile. "Ah. Must be present stuff, huh? I guess you really _can't_ discuss that with me. Not without ruining all the fun, at least. But Alfred's really busy right now; can you wait and talk to him after lunch?"

Dick was by far the least suspicious person in the family, but Damian knew that pushing too much harder would give his game away. He might be able to get away with one more attempt if he cloaked it well enough, though, so he crossed his arms and gave an annoyed sigh. "It sounds like I don't have a choice unless I want to risk ticking him off." He let a beat pass. "What is he doing up there, anyway?"

"Heh. Nothing you need to worry about, little brother. Just wait for him to come down, okay?"

"You're being awfully secretive about whatever it is. That's not like you."

Still smiling, Dick turned back to his project. "It's Christmas, Dami. Secret season. Besides, you've got a secret with Alfred, too, so it's not like I'm leaving you out of anything by not telling you what he's up to."

It was clear that he wouldn't be getting anything more out of Grayson. "…Fine," he gave in, and left it at that.

Between dinner and patrol there had been no chance for Damian to go back to the remote room that evening. Tonight was a school night, however, which meant that he was expected to go to sleep as soon as the others headed out. Faking slumber was a special talent of Damian's, and Alfred hadn't looked twice when he'd checked on him an hour after bedtime. He sneaked out shortly after that, and now his goal was in sight.

He held his breath as his fingers closed around the ornate door handle and turned. The knob stopped after a bare inch. The effort at security attested to the private nature of whatever was beyond the portal, and jubilation rose in his stomach. Normally he would have felt ire at being denied access to an area in his own home, but a basic lock of this sort was an easy enough obstacle to overcome. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a rare smile. This _had_ to be what he was searching for.

Being a Robin had its benefits, one of which was a propensity for planning ahead. The promise of tonight's target had inspired him to tuck an old plastic gift card into the pocket of his pajama pants, and in no time he had used it to jimmy the lock. A moment later he was inside, the door shut securely behind him in case Pennyworth decided to take a midnight stroll. Hands clenched with excitement, Damian turned around.

The pale moonlight filtering in from outside allowed him to see that the mystery room was a gift wrapping workspace. Dozens of rolls of decorative paper, all sorted by event and hung on rods for easy use, lined the walls. Stacks of clear bins showcased ribbons and bows in every color and pattern imaginable. An open toolbox in one corner displayed decorating implements ranging from scissors to tape to tiny picks and tweezers that Damian suspected were used for making the delicate paper tags and baubles Alfred was known for. The center of the floor was occupied by a broad counter-height island with a marble top into which the perfect squares of a cutting grid had been carved. It was dedicated niche spaces such as this one that revealed the true extent of Bruce Wayne's wealth, and Damian couldn't help but be impressed.

Neat stacks of gaily disguised packages filled the space beneath the windows. Damian gravitated towards them even as his eyes continued to roam the room. Flipping over the first label, he found his own name. Subsequent tags bore the same letters, and he quickly surmised that the entire collection was destined for him. Judging from the size of the piles, it was going to be a good Christmas.

Just how good remained to be seen. Damian had hoped that he would discover his gifts before they were wrapped, but he refused to let his tardiness derail his plans. For this was his cardinal Christmas sin; he wanted to know what he was getting without having to wait for the twenty-fifth.

There was no way he could get through all of the presents in front of him in the limited time he had left tonight. Some of the boxes had bows so elaborate that he would never be able to re-tie them with Alfred-level panache. Others had long seams that had been sealed completely, complicating any attempt to break through them in a discreet manner. The stacks themselves had to be sifted through with care, as the butler was sure to have organized them in a particular way that would belie any absentminded tampering. But that was fine; he knew where his gifts were now, and there were nearly two weeks left before Christmas. If he could sneak open a few each day, he'd still be gaming the system.

The minuscule paper quilling tools he'd seen would be perfect for lifting and realigning the tape. Fetching them, Damian settled down on the floor with one of the simpler packages. Then, with his tongue pinched between his teeth to maximize his concentration, he began his secret work.

* * *

The next four nights found Damian back in the wrapping room. He pried up yards of tape, manipulated ribbons and bows so that he could peek past them without undoing their handsome knots, and always, always made sure that the piles beneath the windows looked the same when he left as they had when he'd come. There were a few minor incidents, the worst of which was the slight tear that appeared in one paper corner when he pulled it too tight, but overall he believed that he'd covered his tracks well.

His old gift card was showing distinct signs of having been used as a lock pick by night five. The chips along its edges and scratches across its face didn't keep it from doing what he wanted it to, though, and the door popped open with its usual ease. He headed straight for the toolbox in the corner, then stopped cold as a discrepancy in his now-familiar surroundings caught his eye.

The presents had been rearranged.

No, that wasn't it; they hadn't been rearranged, they'd been replaced entirely. Frantic glances at the tags turned up Dick's name again and again. Damian groaned as he deduced that Alfred had used Friday's school hours to wrap all of Dick's gifts at once. The stacks that were labeled as his had vanished to make way for the new batch, and there was no telling where they had been removed to.

Damian stood still for a moment, his fingers drumming on the cool, grooved marble of the cutting counter as he tried to decide his next move. He hadn't finished breaking into all of the presents he thought he could put back together, but tonight's work would have gotten him close to that target. The question was whether or not he wanted to try and locate the new hiding place and open those last dozen or so.

In the end he determined that it wasn't worth the effort. Today had been his last day of school until after the New Year, which meant that his search time would be limited by patrol. Alfred wasn't likely to drop hints as to where he was keeping things he was done working with, and there were far more storage rooms and closets scattered throughout the house than Damian could reasonably check in his few spare minutes. Besides, he'd managed to unveil more than half of what would be under the tree for him come next Friday without getting caught. When he considered the pains he'd taken to get to that point he felt that he'd notched a decent victory for himself.

And so he returned to his bed without opening a single thing other than the wrapping room door. The gift card that had been instrumental in his success went back into its hiding place until next year. He had no doubt that he would receive other cards between now and then that could be used for the same purpose, but this one had served him well. There was no reason to discard it until it no longer had a use.

When Christmas morning came he entered the living room with a sense of superiority. The others had no idea what they would be unwrapping over the next several hours, but he could already see several packages whose contents were known to him. Smirking, he settled back into a chair and prepared to finally receive all the things he'd been looking forward to over the last week and a half.

Strangely, the satisfaction of knowing what was under the paper faded once he began to officially open his presents. There was no excitement in opening this game or that book when he was aware of what its title would be before it was even handed to him. Worse yet, he had to fake surprise at the things that hadn't been on his list but which he had previously discovered. The morning's only saving grace was the fact that he hadn't managed to sneak peeks into every single package. Those few mystery gifts were all that kept clearing out the tree from becoming a total slog for him.

Dick held him back while the others passed into the hall and towards breakfast. "You okay, Dami?" he asked with a frown. "You seem kind of down. Was there something you were hoping for that you didn't get?"

Trust Grayson to notice his disaffection for the day thus far. "No. I'm just tired," he lied.

"Well…take a nap after we eat, then, huh? You were really good this year, you deserve to have a happy Christmas." With that Dick smiled, ruffled his hair, and followed the others in the direction of the dining room.

Damian started after him, but Alfred's voice halted his steps as he passed the kitchen. "Master Damian? Could you spare a moment, please? I require a bit of assistance."

"Uh…" While the butler gave him chores from time to time during the rest of the year, today was usually an exception. Damian couldn't recall ever seeing anyone in the family perform a task they hadn't volunteered for on Christmas Day, in fact. Alfred always attended to everything for them, from doling out presents first thing to clearing away their last cookie plates at the end of the night. As strange as the request was, though, he didn't dare refuse. His gifts could still be taken away if Father felt he'd been rude, and there was Dick's comment to consider besides. How 'good' would Grayson think he'd been this year if he ignored Alfred's summons now? "Yeah. I'm coming."

"Ah, excellent," the butler said when Damian had entered the room. "Close the door, would you?" he requested without looking up from the pie crust he was rolling out. "I think a bit of privacy is in order."

Frowning, Damian complied. "What's going on?"

"I could ask the same thing of you, young sir."

"What is it with everyone asking if I'm okay today?" he snapped back in frustration. His acting skills were above average most of the time, and he'd tried hard to hide his discontent around the tree, but apparently he hadn't done a very good job. "I'm fine."

"Very well, Master Damian," Alfred replied mildly. "If that's the case, then I'm sure you'll be able to explain why you were a bit mopey around the tree this morning?"

"I'm just tired."

"I see." A beat passed. "I thought it might have been because you'd spoiled the surprise for yourself by opening so many of your gifts early."

Damian's jaw dropped. He hitched it back into place in the space of a heartbeat, but a faint uptick at the corners of Alfred's mouth told him that his shock had been noted. Nevertheless, he feigned innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Indeed? Well, perhaps Master Dick misread the tags and accidentally broke into your presents rather than his own. Shall I call him in and ask him?"

"No!" That was the last thing he wanted. "I mean…Grayson's not stupid. He wouldn't misread my name as his."

"I would tend to agree with you, particularly since in this case he would have had to misread it thirty-odd times. But that leaves us with the same quandary as we started with; if you didn't open them, and Master Dick didn't either, then who did?"

"What makes you think they were opened ahead of time at all? They looked fine to me."

Alfred picked up a clean dish towel and wiped his hands on it slowly. Flour-free, he came around the counter and took up position a few feet from Damian. His arms crossed themselves, mimicking the boy's posture. "I do not wish to argue with you on Christmas, Master Damian, but I will not tolerate being lied to."

"I'm _not-_ " He broke off as the butler's left eyebrow rose imperiously. "…Okay, fine," he muttered. "I did it. Are you happy now?"

"No, I'm still disappointed. I'm disappointed that you broke into the wrapping room, I'm disappointed that you sneaked your gifts open early and then tried to cover it up, and I'm disappointed that you did those things multiple times."

"Wait, you knew what I was doing? Why didn't you stop me?"

"I didn't stop you because I knew that no punishment Master Wayne or I might mete out would be as effective as the consequences you were preparing for yourself. Was I correct?"

"…Yeah," Damian confessed. "You were." As little as he claimed to care for Christmas, he did like the rush of excitement that came with getting a huge batch of presents all at once. Looking back, he wondered what he had been thinking when he'd decided that it was a good idea to spread that high out over several nights. This morning had sucked compared to the other Christmases he'd experienced, and it was nobody's fault but his own.

"Is it safe for me to assume that you won't be repeating your folly again next year, then?"

"Yes."

"Very good. In that case…" Alfred turned away and walked to the cabinets near where he'd been working. He came back bearing a small package the size of a television remote. "I believe you've earned this. Merry Christmas, Master Damian."

Feeling more surprised than he had all day, Damian took the box. It was as well-dressed as all his other gifts had been, but he knew it hadn't been part of the stacks he'd raided in the wrapping room. "What is it?"

"Open it and see for yourself."

He did as he'd been told, loosening each edge slowly in order to draw out his anticipation this one time. When he finally lifted the lid away he found an ornate antique key nestled in a cloud of white fluff. Something about it struck him as being beautiful even though he couldn't imagine coming across a lock it would fit. "What…does it go to something, or…?"

"Not any longer, no, but I thought it apropos nonetheless. You see, that key belonged to the front door of this house a century or so ago. The locks have been updated several times since then, of course, but that doesn't change the symbolism behind giving a key."

Alfred paused. "I have not locked the door to the wrapping room during Christmas time since Master Dick was younger than you are now. Master Jason and Master Tim were old enough to be trusted not to break into their presents by the time they were spending holidays here, so it wasn't until you came along that I thought such precautions necessary once more. Now that you've learned your lesson about leaving some secrets alone, though, I see no reason not to return to the previous status quo."

Damian ran a finger down the key's long, worn shank. "So this is a symbol of…what? Your trust?"

"Precisely, young sir."

"Huh." He didn't want to dwell on the reasons why, but he thought the gift in his hand might be the best one he'd received that year. "That's…"

"Not something you were expecting?"

"No. It…it isn't." Damian knew he had been a near-constant source of extra work and stress to the butler practically since the day he'd arrived at the Manor three years before. That being the case, he couldn't blame Alfred for not relying on him for much up to this point. "Um…thanks."

"No thanks are required, Master Damian. Only take care that you guard this key well; it is, after all, a piece of the house's history. I trust," he emphasized, "that you will keep it safe."

"I will," Damian promised, and he meant it.

"Perhaps you'd like to visit the wrapping room sometime during your break from school and find a ribbon you like. The key would look quite nice hanging on your wall. Unless you'd prefer to do something else with it, of course."

"No, that sounds good." Not wanting to appear too eager even though he agreed that the key belonged on display, he quickly corrected himself. "I mean…I'll think about it."

"As you wish. I'll put it in your bedroom in the meantime so that you can enjoy your breakfast unencumbered. I'm sure the others are wondering where you've gotten to."

"Yeah. Okay." Damian handed his gift back, then made to leave. At the door he paused and looked back. "…Alfred?"

"Master Damian?"

"The thing with the presents...that's between us."

"Naturally, young sir. It will be our little secret."

"…Good."

As Damian entered the hallway his thoughts turned to the old gift card he had secreted away. He had kept it because it had proven effective at getting him into the wrapping room, but both his desire and the need to break into that space were now gone. The card had lost its usefulness as anything but a memento of his transgression. He would throw it away when he went upstairs next, he decided. The key Alfred had given him would serve as a much better reminder of the lesson he'd learned this season, and it promised to unlock a great deal more than plain old doors besides.

He hesitated as laughter swelled out from where the others were already eating. It was Christmas, and they were happy; he didn't want to ruin that with the dour mood he'd brought down on himself. Then again, both Alfred and Dick had made it clear that they thought he deserved to have a good day. Since either of their opinions alone was a powerful endorsement it was probably worth his time to apply himself to any idea that they both approved of.

With that in mind, Damian let a tiny smile slip across his features and turned into the dining room.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Full disclosure; I totally sneaked into my Christmas presents when I was about twelve/thirteen. I thought I was clever as hell doing it, too, but my parents knew almost immediately. Fortunately they, like Alfred, let the lost surprise on Christmas morning teach me my lesson rather than taking Christmas away or punishing me in some other way.**

 **Also, who wouldn't want the epic wrapping room they have at Wayne Manor? Total Christmas daydream material.**

 **Tomorrow we'll have a bit of sweetness and reflection with Bruce and young Dick. Stay tuned, and happy reading!**


	4. The Gift of Music

Wayne Manor had more rooms than Dick could keep track of. No matter how many afternoons he spent wandering the mansion's labyrinthine halls and peeking into its exquisitely furnished chambers, each sojourn uncovered some unknown space. He hadn't had much time to explore since he'd started school, but with winter break here there would be plenty of lonesome hours to fill while Bruce was working and Alfred was occupied with household tasks. Maybe, he'd thought as he set out after lunch, he would even find something that could make him feel like it was Christmas despite his parents' absence.

So far the best thing he'd discovered was a new third-floor guest room, a pale green tableau that looked ready to be moved into at a moment's notice. It had been pretty, but it wasn't enough to put him in the holiday spirit. That was no surprise, since not even Alfred's professional-grade holiday decorating skills had proven capable of banishing his lingering Yuletide ghosts. He searched on, though, and eventually came across a short side hallway at the back of the house's second floor. Three doors opened off of it, which he checked one at a time. The first disclosed a petite bathroom decorated in pink, black, and white; pretty again, but still not enough. The second opened into an empty closet, which did nothing for him at all. Closing them both, he turned to the final portal.

He had saved this one for last on purpose. If any room had a chance of brightening his outlook it had to be the one behind the fairy tale double doors that filled the end of the corridor. Each of the solid cherry frames was inset with a stained glass masterpiece depicting a nearly life-sized trumpeter dressed in medieval style. The pair faced one another, their horns raised high to create a tunnel. The narrow, curving bands of metal that supported each colored chip had been gilded silver. They glowed gently in the hall light, lending the musicians an ethereal air that made Dick almost believe that they might spring to life and announce his arrival with a brassy fanfare.

A silver handle, cool to the touch, let him past the glass guardians. "Wow…" he murmured when the grand space beyond them came into view. Dark hardwood floors led the eye to distant banks of floor-to-ceiling windows, through which the low mid-winter sun was streaming. Creamy yellow walls stretched up to a vaulted ceiling whose open beams matched the material underfoot. A few dustcloth-covered chairs sat in a tight conversational group before a broad flagstone fireplace. Beyond them were an array of stands and hard, odd-shaped instrument cases. The room itself was shaped like a pentagon, and Dick swiftly realized that he was inside one of the corner towers that made Wayne Manor look like a castle.

Gleaming on the far side of the space was a grand piano that ought to have been in a concert hall. It was clearly the centerpiece of the room, and as soon as Dick spotted it everything else faded from view. There was nothing about it save its ability to make music to mark it as kin to the battered old upright owned by Pop Haly, but it took him back to the circus nonetheless. He let his hand hover above the perfectly polished body, wanting to get as close as he could without smudging it. The cover was down over the keys, but there was just enough of a lip for him to avoid leaving prints when he pushed it back. Holding his breath, he stretched one finger towards the nearest pale button.

Then he hesitated. This was a very expensive piano, and probably an old one, too. Pop Haly had told him about old-timey people using ivory to make things like piano keys; what if an elephant had died so that this instrument could play? Pop had assured him that the circus' piano didn't contain any animal parts, but there was every reason to believe that this one might. Frowning, he pulled his hand back. There was enough room between the tapestried bench and the piano itself for him to sit without touching anything that could have once belonged to an elephant, so he slid in to consider his problem. He wanted nothing to do with real ivory unless it was still attached to the creature that had grown it, but the longer he stayed here the louder the keys called out to him.

Pop Haly had no formal training, and both his profession and his personal preferences inclined him towards circus music, but Dick carried many fond memories of evenings spent at his side learning simple little ditties and scores for the show's various acts. He'd been missing so many other things about his old life that those lessons under the big top had slipped his mind until now. Had there been instruments anywhere else in the house it might have been a different story; as things were, though, all of his musical recollections and yearnings were rushing back at once.

His mother had encouraged him to join Pop Haly at the piano as often as he could. Her flute had been one of the few things Mary carried when she ran away from college to marry Dick's father, and she had frequently expressed her joy at the fact that her son had inherited her love of music. So many times he had hopped down from the bench, his fingers aching in a way the trapeze bars couldn't reproduce, only to find her watching him from nearby. Surely she would have wanted him to keep practicing what he'd learned from Pop, especially if he could do so in a room like this one.

The idea of strengthening that old connection with his mother was just powerful enough to override his dismay at the potential origin of the keys before him. "Sorry, elephants," he whispered as he stroked the off-white array, "but this is really important."

He shivered at the clear, perfect note that rang out when he pressed down with one finger. It was a far purer sound than any that the circus instrument had ever produced in his hearing, and it seemed to carry on forever in the otherwise silent room. A tiny smile spread across Dick's face as he pushed a second key, then a third. Soon he was playing the short, easy pieces that he'd learned long ago. Some were recognizable as scraps of lullabies and children's melodies, while others were bits of old Romani caravan airs that Pop Haly had converted for the piano through trial and error. All of them were beautiful to the boy's ears, even when he hit the occasional wrong note.

So absorbed was he in his melodic reveries that he didn't notice when the trumpeters at the door swung aside to let someone else enter. He didn't hear the soft footsteps that carried the new arrival across the floor and up behind him, either. It was only when a voice spoke above his head at the end of a song that he finally realized he wasn't alone. "How did you get in here, chum?"

"Bruce!" Tearing his hands off of the piano, he whipped around with a guilty expression. "I'm sorry. Should I not be in here? What time is it, anyway?" There was still light in the sky outside, which meant it was well before when Bruce usually arrived home from work. "Are you home early?"

"Whoa, kiddo, relax. One question at a time. But first," Bruce added, "scoot over so I can sit down."

Dick did as he'd been told. As soon as the billionaire was seated beside him a torrent of explanation poured forth from his lips. "I didn't mean to snoop or anything, honest. It's just that I like to wander around and look at all the places I've never seen before. There's so many of them, you know, because your house is so huge. I don't normally go inside and play with stuff, but…" He turned his eyes back to the piano. "But I'd never seen a piano like this one before," he said, leaving his mother and Pop Haly out of things for now.

For a moment Bruce didn't reply. When his words came they were reflective, and underlined with a sadness that Dick understood all too well. "It was my mother's."

"Oh…" Dick bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"It was your mom's. I shouldn't have touched it."

"Hey." Fingers pushed Dick's chin gently upward, forcing him to look Bruce in the face. "I don't mind. In fact, I'm glad you did."

"Really?"

"Really. I hadn't been in here in a long time. Alfred clearly has been, judging from how clean the piano is, but…not me. If I hadn't been looking for you and heard you playing from out in the hallway I don't think I'd have checked in here at all."

"Is it...does it hurt too much for you to come in here?" Dick recalled the femininely hued powder room just beyond the double doors. It was unlike any of the other baths he'd come across in the house, and he had a hunch as to why that was. "She liked this room, didn't she? Your mom? She liked it a lot."

Bruce looked slowly around. "...Yeah, chum. She did. It was her wedding present from my father. His grandmother had kept her instruments in here once, too, but nobody had used the room since she'd died. Musical aptitude isn't a trait that runs in the Wayne family. We keep bringing it into the fold," he said with a mysterious smile, "but it never seems to stick.

"Anyway, my mother overhauled this space and the bathroom just outside in the way she wanted them. She loved it in here. If Father wasn't home and I wasn't occupying her attention, this was where you could find her. She put the chairs in for when her friends came to visit. She had three or four close ones who were here a lot when I was young. All very musical ladies, just like her." A beat passed as he caressed the keys in the same way Dick had earlier. "This piano came with her from her childhood home. It was her sixteenth birthday present, she told me once." Suddenly, a chuckle escaped him. "I think I told her that when I turned sixteen I wanted a Ferrari."

Dick smiled, glad to see that Bruce wasn't depressed by being in his mother's favored part of the house. "What did she say then?"

"...I wish I could remember."

"...Oh." So much not being depressed.

But the billionaire didn't seem bothered by his ill-timed question. "What I _do_ remember, though," he went on, "is how it sounded when she played, and the expression she wore when she was deep into the music. She studied the piano all through school, and in college, too. Mostly classical, although sometimes she'd play popular stuff to amuse my father. No matter what it was, though, it was always beautiful when she played. She was beautiful." The thousand-yard stare Bruce had been wearing lifted, and he turned to Dick. "You're the first person to make music in here since she died. I didn't even know you could play an instrument. Who taught you those songs?"

"Pop Haly. It's mostly circus music, though. I don't know anything classical. But...I bet my mom would have. She used to play really pretty things on her flute. It must have been some of the same stuff that...that your mom played." Suddenly Dick regretted never asking his mother to teach him her instrument of choice. Did Pop still have her flute somewhere perhaps, he wondered, locked up safely in its velvet-lined case, waiting for the day when someone would put their lips to it again?

"Mm. It might have been, kiddo. It might have been." Bruce shook himself then, and the thin lines of grief that had creased the corners of his eyes disappeared. "Listen to me, Dick," he said seriously. "You can come in here and play any time you want to. Okay?"

Now that Dick knew the sort of music that Martha Wayne had made in this space his pecked-out campfire airs felt like an insult to her memory. "But I can't play anything classical."

"That doesn't matter. I don't care what you play; it's just nice to know that someone's enjoying her special room again."

"...You really don't mind?"

"I really don't. She wouldn't mind, either. If you don't believe me about that, then ask Alfred. I'm sure he'll agree. And as for classical music – or any other kind of music, for that matter – if you decide you want to learn more, just let me know. I'm sure we can find someone who will come to the house and teach you, and Alfred's good enough at juggling schedules to keep lessons from interfering with your school or Robin work. Okay?"

It would be wonderful to be able to play, to feel connected to his mother and Pop Haly and the circus again, whenever he wanted. If his playing brought back good memories for Bruce, too, then that was all the better. As for lessons...well, he could think about those. As nice as it would be to someday play the classical music that his guardian remembered from his childhood, Dick didn't want to risk getting a teacher who might take the fun out of the piano for him. "Okay," Dick nodded. Leaning over, he embraced his guardian. "Thank you."

"No, chum. Thank you for giving me a reason to come in here again. I'd almost let myself forget something important, but that won't happen again so long as you're around to remind me."

Dick craned his neck to look up at the man whose arm was wrapped around his shoulders. "To remind you of what?"

Bruce squeezed him tightly for a second. "That amazing things can come out of nowhere and seemingly from nothing, but still touch you forever. Now," he continued, pulling away, "I think we have time for a couple more songs before Alfred starts wondering why we aren't in the kitchen asking for cookies. What do you think?"

Dick was game, but he'd run through most of his repertoire. "What should I play?"

"Well..." Bruce nodded at the windows. The sky beyond them had turned a half-dozen shades of twilight, but it wasn't yet dark enough to hide the fat white flakes that were drifting down onto the frosty lawn. "It's almost Christmas, and it's starting to snow. How about 'Jingle Bells'? Do you know that one?"

"Yeah!" 'Jingle Bells' happened to be one of the few carols Pop Haly had shown him, as a matter of fact. Excited, Dick prepared to play. Then he remembered his earlier dilemma, and turned back to the billionaire. "...But Bruce?"

"Hmm?"

"Um...your mom didn't ask for a piano with elephant keys for her birthday, did she?"

"What?" Bruce blinked at him for a moment, then seemed to gather what he was talking about. "Oh. Do you mean did she ask for a piano with real ivory?"

"Yeah. She didn't, did she?" As much as he wanted to play, he wouldn't be able to if he knew that there really were elephant parts under his fingers.

"No, Dicky. It's too modern for that, and my mother was almost as much of an animal lover as you besides. No elephants were harmed in the making of this piano, I promise."

That settled that. "Great! But will you sing? I can't sing and play at the same time, I lose my place."

"You...want me to sing?"

"Yeah! Please?"

"I'm a pretty awful singer, chum."

"That's okay. I only remember like half of the song anyway. We can be terrible together!"

Bruce snorted with amusement. "...All right, but you were warned. Ready?"

"Ready! One...two...three!" His fingers picked out the opening notes, and in a minute an off-key tenor joined in. The result was far from perfect, but Dick didn't care. It was finally starting to feel like Christmas, he was with Bruce, and somewhere, he was certain, both their mothers were smiling; all in all, that was enough for him.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Sad, but sweet. What I've been finding particularly sweet these last few days are all of the reviews you lovely readers have been leaving me. Thank you!**

 **Tomorrow we'll dive into another two-parter, this time featuring Dick, Tim, and a nasty Christmas mystery. Happy reading!**


	5. Public Service, Part 1

**Author's Note: I lied. This one's going to be a three-parter. But trust me, it will be worth it in the end.**

 **As a warning to young or highly sensitive readers, this story will deal with the always heavy topic of murder. The beginning part is a bit graphic at moments, so feel free to skim as you need to.**

* * *

"…I'm afraid that what I have to show you is pretty gruesome," Commissioner Gordon said as he led Nightwing and Robin down into the basement of Gotham Memorial Hospital. They turned into the morgue, and Robin shivered. His costume provided ample protection from the slight chill in the room, but something about being surrounded by tagged and cataloged corpses always disturbed him. At least when he encountered bodies out on patrol there were things like the risk of encountering baddies and the need to collect evidence to distract him from the lingering presence of death. Here he was face to face with it, and there was nothing to soften the experience.

But he couldn't leave Nightwing to tackle this case alone. With Batman out of town on a JLA mission the pair of them were the only protection Gotham had, and the commissioner had said on the phone that this was a serious matter. Whatever 'gruesome' sight they were about to see, he would just have to hold his bile down and focus.

His determination to stand firm was tested when the morgue attendant pulled back the sheet. The pulpy figure on the table had clearly been no more than ten years old. Whatever she had been beaten with had left a mixture of deep purple bruises and long, narrow lacerations all over her body. Her face was mostly untouched, but the expression of sheer terror that had frozen in place there made it by far the worst part of the scene. There was no reason to ask if she had died fast, as the answer was clearly no.

"Naomi Peltier," Commissioner Gordon informed them. "Age eight. She vanished earlier this evening while out Christmas shopping with her mother at Westbrook Plaza. Left to go to the bathroom and never came back. They found her just outside the emergency exit near the restrooms about a half hour after she was reported missing."

"Nobody in or around the mall heard her screaming?" Nightwing asked with a frown.

"She was gagged."

Robin believed it. The child's tender mouth was wedged open, its corners chafed raw as if she'd been struggling against her bonds. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and trusted the lenses of his mask to hide his distress. She'd been barely half his age…

He listened distantly as Gordon ran through more facts. The girl hadn't been sexually assaulted, just killed; her parents insisted that there was no one in their acquaintance who might have wanted to hurt them or their daughter; there were no witnesses, and no video or audio recordings, either. The only solid clue they had pertained to the murder weapon. While the cause of the lacerations was still in question, debris found on and around the body suggested that a bundle of birch sticks was the source of the many bruises and bone fractures.

"Oh," the commissioner added just as Robin thought he'd finished his grisly recitation. "And one other thing. The alarm on the emergency exit had been deactivated. We think the killer may have snatched her in the hallway and gone straight out the door. We're still working on how they knew the procedure to disarm the siren."

"Mall security, maybe?" Nightwing suggested. "Some of them must know how, and they'd know where they could operate without being seen, too."

"No. We don't think that's likely."

Robin's eyes popped open. "Don't you think you're writing them off as suspects kind of quickly?" he asked with a frown. "If this all happened just a few hours ago you can't have had time to clear the mall's entire security staff."

Gordon heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. "We haven't, Robin. But we don't really need to, because this isn't the first child that's been found like this. There have been others, scattered around popular retail locations across the city. Unless someone on Westbrook's security staff works part time at all of those places, they don't seem likely to be suspects."

Nightwing's thumb twitched slightly. It wasn't the sort of tell that anyone who didn't work with him on a regular basis would have caught, but Robin knew it meant that he'd been caught off guard by that news. "How many have there been?" the older vigilante asked.

"There's been one every day since the fifth."

That meant that Naomi filled out a handful of victims. "So we're looking at a serial killer," Robin said.

"Yes. A serial killer who specifically targets children. Anyway…" Gordon nodded to the morgue attendant, who stepped forward to roll the girl's body away. "There's more to it than what I've told you, but they're details that I'm not willing to go over in a public building. I've put everything we have so far onto this," he said as he handed over a thumb drive. "The sooner this person is behind bars, the better. There are enough families already whose holidays will never be the same." He paused. "…No offense, boys, but I wish Batman was here for this one."

"Me, too," said Nightwing. "But he's not, so it's up to us. C'mon, Rob; let's get to work. See you, Commissioner."

A dozen questions were pinging around in Robin's head as they took their leave. Why would anyone want to kill children with something as archaic as a bunch of sticks, and at Christmas on top of it? Had the responsible party killed before this sudden spate of violence? Were the victims targets of opportunity, or was there some connection between them, some similarity? Most important of all, would they be able to find the murderer before another child died?

The answers lay, he hoped, in the information the Commissioner had given them. Whatever the files on the drive in his hand contained couldn't possibly be more disturbing than what he'd just seen. And even if it turned out that it was worse, he thought with relief as they reached ground level, at least he wouldn't have to review it in such an unseasonal venue as a morgue.

* * *

Robin used the tablet computer that was usually inset into the Batmobile's dashboard to began reviewing the evidence the moment they reached the car. The pictures could only be more of what he'd just viewed in the morgue, so he skipped them for now and went straight to the reports. He read them aloud so that Nightwing, whose hands were locked around the steering wheel like he wanted to throttle it, also got a general picture of what they were dealing with.

All of the victims had been between five and ten years old. All had been out at a local mall or department store when they'd disappeared. All had been found near emergency exits or service doors that let out into shadowy, unpatrolled back lots or alleyways. And all of them had been killed in the exact same way as Naomi Peltier, gagged and beaten with a bundle of sticks and something else that had yet to be identified.

But that was where the similarities ended. Westbrook Plaza served an upper-middle-class neighborhood frequented by the sorts of people whose children could expect things like horseback riding lessons for Christmas; two of the other crime scenes, however, were located in parts of the city where most kids had never even seen a horse in real life, let alone had the chance to ride one. The victims represented three different races, and were mixed between boys and girls. They hadn't all disappeared on the way to the bathroom, either. One child had vanished in the middle of a North Pole display in a mall common area; another had been sent to the front of the store to get a cart, and had never come back; a third had stomped away in a snit after being denied a candy bar. If there was a pattern to be discerned beyond the use of utility doors in all of that, Robin couldn't see it.

Nightwing said nothing when he'd finished reading the victim profiles. "...Are you okay?" he asked after a minute of stony silence had passed. The atmosphere in the car felt heavy in the same way it did when Batman was working on something related to the Joker. Nightwing had never given off cold anger like this before, at least not in Robin's presence, and it was starting to worry him.

"I want this guy, Rob. I want him bad. That's all it is."

"...Okay." That wasn't terribly illuminating, but at least Nightwing had answered him. "Do you want me to keep reading, or...?"

"No. We're almost home now. After we get changed we'll go through the rest together. It's going to be a late night; maybe you should radio ahead and ask Alfred to get some coffee started."

Robin did so. A few minutes later they parked in the Batcave's voluminous garage, and he headed straight for the showers. He wasn't particularly in need of a wash – they had barely patrolled for an hour before Alfred had relayed the Commissioner's request to join him at Gotham Memorial to them – but he wanted one anyway. Nightwing's uncharacteristic anger in the car had left him feeling a bit chilled, and his skin always crawled after a visit to the morgue besides.

When he emerged in his pajamas and slippers his brother was nowhere in sight. There were two steaming cups of coffee by the computers, but that was it. "Dick?" he called out, frowning.

"In here," a distant voice came from the direction of the training rooms. Tim followed it and found the person he'd been looking for perched pensively on top of a set of uneven bars.

"Hey. You're, ah...not where I thought you would be." He'd seen Dick retreat to the solitude of his acrobatic equipment only two times before, and in both instances it had been intense emotions that had driven him there. "Look...I know I'm not Bruce, but if you want to talk-"

Tim cut off as Dick fell backwards without warning. He flipped around the bar twice in quick succession, then released his grip and flew into a mid-air tumble. His feet hit the pad bare inches from where Tim was standing. When he'd straightened from his landing, Dick shook himself. Then he smiled faintly, and spoke. "I'm sorry if I'm freaking you out, Timmy. I know you haven't seen me this mad before. But killing kids at Christmas...snatching them away from an evening out with their families and murdering them...there are so many things wrong with that. We can't let this go on. I don't need to talk, I need to work. But I didn't want to keep going without you, so I can in here to keep myself occupied until you were ready."

"Oh!" He wished he'd realized as much beforehand so he could have hurried his ablutions. "Well, I'm ready when you are."

An arm landed across Tim's shoulders, and the mood lightened somewhat as Dick turned him back towards the computer banks. "Then let's do this."

They pored over crime scene photos and officer reports for hours. Alfred kept them going through the night with hot coffee. As dawn approached he delivered a tray of breakfast sandwiches stacked high with eggs, cheese, and meat. Dick and Tim ate them one handed, unwilling to stop scrolling through the evidence while they chewed. Time was running short; if they didn't have an idea before dark came again, another innocent child might very well die.

But ideas were in short supply. They checked everything they could think of, but found no identical factors about the crime scenes that might help them guess at the next target. None of the five shared a similar layout or the same parent company. Two of the locations had identical alarm systems, but one of those two hadn't had any sirens deactivated like the one at Westbrook Plaza had been. The other three buildings had different emergency hardware altogether. They seemed to have all been chosen at random. That was a problem, because there were far too many retail centers in the city for the GPD to guard every night until the killer was caught.

"I wish Gordon would hold a press conference," Tim said around seven o'clock. Rubbing his aching eyes, he flopped back in his chair. "I know he's worried that this person might pick up their pace even more, or that we might get copycats out of a news report, but it's crazy not to tell people what's going on. At least then they could keep their kids at home. If they did that, no one else would have to die."

"I agree," Dick nodded. "But if the killing doesn't stop soon, it _will_ come out. The parents aren't pushing hard yet, but if nothing's turned up in another couple of days they're going to be recovered from their shock enough to start asking hard questions. When Gordon can't answer them, they'll go to the press."

"I hope you're right."

"I've seen it happen like this before. If Bruce was here he'd tell you the same thing." Dick stretched his arms above his head, then closed his eyes and leaned into his seat. "Try not to be upset with the Commish for keeping things under wraps. I know it's not what we think is best, but we're not in his position. Gordon's got a tough job. He has to balance justice, public safety, public sentiment, the law, and the capabilities of his officers all at once. If he screws up even one of those things bad enough he'll have a long fall coming to him, and no guarantee of a net. Speaking as a guy who grew up in a circus, that's one heck of an act he's got going."

"Yeah..." Tim still thought it was foolish not to alert the citizenry of Gotham that there was a serial killer on the loose, but he could appreciate what Dick meant about the complexity of a job like Commissioner of Police. The harried look that had been in Gordon's eyes when he'd all but pleaded for them to bring this case to a close fast made more sense than ever. "What are we going to do, Dick? We've got nothing."

"We're going to do the only thing we can do; sleep on it. I'm exhausted, and I know you've got to be, too. We've crammed a lot of info into our heads since we got home, and now we've got to give our brains a chance to process it all."

It wasn't what Bruce would have done – he would have stayed in the cave until he either had a solution or passed out on top of his paperwork – but Tim didn't have the energy to argue. Bed sounded like paradise, and Dick had a point about answers sometimes coming in one's sleep. "Okay. But Dick?"

"Hmm?"

"We've _got_ to figure something out before tonight." Naomi Peltier had to be the last child who died at Christmas time.

Dick's expression darkened, and Tim was reminded of the ire he'd seen in his brother's gaze earlier in the night. "...I know it, Timmy. Trust me, I know."


	6. Public Service, Part 2

Tim awoke in the mid-afternoon. His dreams had been strange, convoluted things in which he'd been chasing something or someone through one door after another. Every time he thought he was getting close to his quarry he found himself in a long corridor lined with identical portals. All of them were locked, and although he had a key in his hand there were far too many passageways for him to check before his time ran out. No matter where he started or how many locks he jammed the key into, he never found the right one before a child's scream rose in the distance. A despairing ache filled his slumbering mind as he was warped back to the beginning of the course over and over again.

His subconscious might have wanted to treat the case at hand like a video game, respawning him in the same spot as if he'd only failed a level, but things were far more serious than that. In a few short hours it would be dark, and any child out shopping in Gotham would be at risk. It was for that reason that he skipped changing into day clothes, bypassed the kitchen, and went straight down to the cave. Blinking blearily, he dropped into his usual chair and began to click back through the documents they'd gotten from the Commissioner. There had to be something, anything, somewhere in all of this...

Dick took up the seat beside him before long, but they didn't speak beyond saying hello. Photos, coroner's reports, and interviews flashed by on both screens. Tim skimmed some pages and picked others apart, but found nothing. The families had no enemies, the police had no leads, and he was quickly reaching a point of having no hope. Had the murderer left home yet for the night, he wondered, left home and headed for this evening's killing ground? If they had, then it seemed only a lucky car accident or a sudden bout of food poisoning would be in position to intervene with their nefarious plans. At this rate Robin and Nightwing certainly would not.

A note from the second night's killing caught his attention. An emergency exit had been used that time just as it had been at Westbrook Plaza. The store manager had remarked on the fact that the alarm hadn't been triggered, telling the police that the system had just been serviced a couple of weeks earlier. Their monitoring panel had shown everything working fine since then, including the door in question.

"...Dick," Tim breathed as a possibility struck him. "How many of the stores had deactivated emergency exit alarm? Three, wasn't it?"

"I think so. But they were all on different systems."

"Different hardware systems, yeah. But that doesn't mean that there isn't somebody out there who knows how all three types work. I'd bet that big, public spaces like shopping malls are required to have their life and safety set-ups serviced regularly. And if they are, don't you think there's a good chance that servicing companies know how to work with multiple types of systems?"

Dick's eyes narrowed as he considered Tim's suggestion. "So you think maybe these stores have all been serviced by the same alarm system company, and now one of their employees is taking advantage of that inside knowledge?"

"It seems plausible, don't you think?"

"What about the stores where nothing was disarmed? The ones where the killer used the employee or service doors instead?"

"Well, if the killer's been in these places before in order to work they might have gotten a pretty good look at the way the back areas are set up. Why risk setting off an alarm if you know you can get what you want in another way? Plus, if an employee saw them before they snatched a kid they could always make the excuse that they'd been called out for a system error or something."

"Hmm...I could see that. Let me give the commissioner a call and see what his guys can find out about the company or companies that have been keeping all these systems properly certified. You keep reading," Dick said as he stood up. "You're obviously getting further than I am with the evidence."

Reinvigorated by his find, Tim returned to the case file and began to re-read everything for the half dozenth time. He had no other strokes of genius before Alfred insisted they come upstairs and have dinner, however. Sitting across the table from Dick, Tim stared down at his pot roast and tried to think harder. Was a potential third party connection between the businesses really the only clue the files had to give him...?

Dick's hand stretched across the table and grasped his wrist without warning. "Stop beating your brains out, Timmy," he counseled. "Gordon said he would get men on it right away. We'll check in with him first thing when we hit the city."

Tim sighed. "I just feel like we're running out of time."

"We _are_ running out of time. We are, and I hate it too. But we're doing everything we can. Try and take a mental break from it all." A faint smile appeared on the older man's face. "You've got to stop being so Bruce about it all."

"You didn't seem to be ascribing to that philosophy last night."

"No, I'm sure I didn't. Don't get me wrong, I...I want to tear this guy apart. And I don't want another child to die. But we can't take care of this murderer – we can't protect tonight's child, or any of the ones that might come after that – if we don't take care of ourselves. Bruce has a hard time acknowledging that, at least when it comes to himself, and I don't want to see you fall into the same bad habit. Self-denial only works for so long before the positive gain flat-lines. We need to eat and rest from time to time if we're going to do our best possible work. Got it?"

"...Got it." Dick was right, he knew, but it was hard to stop thinking about the mangled little body they'd seen the night before. Placing all of his focus on cutting his food into identical-sized pieces helped a little, but the specter of the serial killer still hovered over his shoulder. It seemed there would be no real escape until the bastard was apprehended and the killings stopped.

Their first stop that night was police headquarters. "Commissioner," Nightwing greeted as he stepped out of the shadows slightly ahead of Robin. "Any progress on what we discussed earlier?"

Gordon had jumped when he heard Nightwing's voice, and now a mild scowl twisted his lips. "You know, I had hoped that with Batman out of town you might come in without scaring the living daylights out of me."

"Sorry. Old training dies hard. Anyway...news?"

"I do have some news, yes. Your hunch was right; all five locations have their alarm systems serviced by the same company, Gotham Fire and Safety."

"Nice job, Rob," Nightwing said, grinning. "You called it."

Tim began to swell with pride at the praise, but his private celebration was cut off by Gordon's next words. "The problem is that all of their employees check out. We've been putting everyone on their payroll through the third degree, and there's nothing. Everyone from their dispatcher to the company's owner has a solid alibi for at least one of the last five nights."

"...Could it be a group thing?" Nightwing postulated. "Maybe more than one of them are in on it. I couldn't begin to give you a motive for one person wanting to murder children at Christmas, let alone several, but still."

"It's a thought, and one that hadn't escaped me," the commissioner nodded. "But the issue of a motive for collusion isn't the only hurdle for that idea to jump. There's also the fact that every single staff member save one was at the company Christmas party when the second killing occurred. That exception was at the hospital with a sick child. They picked up a prescription on the far side of town not five minutes after that evening's victim went missing."

Robin felt his rising mood deflate. "So it's just a coincidence that all of the stores are serviced by the same alarm company."

"It looks that way. But we're not writing the connection off completely, though. Just to be on the safe side, I've assigned officers to every large retailer in the city that's used Gotham Fire and Safety in the last twelve months. The upper management of each location has been briefed that they're to call 911 immediately if a child is reported missing. If the alarm service company is the link, we'll at least have people in position to respond the minute a call comes in."

"Do you have a list?" Nightwing asked. "We'll try and focus our patrol in the areas with the highest density of potential targets."

Gordon rifled through the stacks of paperwork on his desk. "Here," he said after a moment. "We mapped them all earlier. It's fairly spread out, but I'd appreciate some extra eyes in the air. We'll have a couple of helicopters scanning from above, too."

"Great. If we're not already in the area when they strike, we'll come running."

They left on that note. Back in the alley where they'd parked the Batmobile, they examined the map Gordon had given them. "He's right," Robin remarked. "These places are scattered all over the city. We can't watch all of them."

"No, we can't. I think the best thing we can do is split up and just swing by each place as many times as possible tonight. Even if we don't see him, he might see us in the area. That plus the extra police presence could be enough to make our guy decide that tonight's a good night to go home without killing anyone. Sound good?"

"It's a plan, which is more than I have."

"Cool. Here..." Nightwing creased the map down the center and tore it neatly in half. "You'd better take the north side. Some of the locations to the south are near Red Hood's territory, and he's less likely to try and jump me than you if we have to pursue the perp over his lines."

"Right." He hadn't even thought about what they would do if one of the targets turned out to be in the second Robin's self-proclaimed zone of control. Fortunately Red Hood's neighborhoods weren't the sort of place conducive to legal business, but as Nightwing had pointed out the bad guy could easily make a break for it if he was already in the area. "Well...see you later, then."

"Yup. Keep your radio on the police band; if anything comes over, we'll meet wherever the action is. Call me if you need anything." Nightwing tossed him an encouraging smile, then rose into the darkness.

Two hours later Robin's arms were aching. He spent plenty of nights grappling around the city in Batman or Nightwing's wake, but the activity was almost never this concentrated. Swinging for fifteen or twenty minutes in order to do something on the ground was his normal; this evening his feet had barely touched down at all. Finally he had to take a break. A high building overlooking one of the north end's bigger malls seemed an ideal place to do so, and he sat down on a corner to watch the sprawling complex below.

The police band had been busy tonight, but not with what he was listening for. Several times he had nearly turned off of his circuit when the sort of thing they would respond to on a normal slow patrol night came over. As Nightwing had said, old training died hard. As he sat massaging his sore muscles, he let the familiar dispatcher voices wash over him. Domestic dispute on West 114th; suspicious activity near a jewelry store downtown; stolen vehicle outside a nightclub in the old industrial district. Simple, soothing bush league tasks, any one of which he would have preferred to his current occupation. Why couldn't the worst crime in existence be robbery, or theft, or even assault? Such things could be recovered from, but murder was permanent.

Just as he was about to stand up and continue his rounds, it happened. "920c at Covington Center," rang in his ear. "Repeat, 920c, Covington Center. All available south side officers on special duty respond."

Robin leaped to his feet. 920c was code for a missing child, and unless he was greatly mistaken Covington Center mall had been one of the locations marked on Nightwing's half of the map. The remaining burn in his arms and sides vanished as adrenaline hit his system. Turning south, he fired his grapple and took off. If only they weren't too late...

It took just over ten minutes for him to cross the city and land in the police-car heavy parking lot of Covington Center. The sight of an ambulance with its rear doors flung open and no stretcher inside wasn't comforting, but if the paramedics had been in a hurry maybe there was a chance the victim was still breathing. Dodging through the many unknown officers who had converged on the site, he turned the corner and passed into the building's receiving zone. On the far side of several semi trailers he found a small knot of people standing in front of several dumpsters. "Sergeant Redding!" he addressed the first person he'd seen whose name he knew. "Did we get them?"

Redding looked up from the notebook he'd been frantically scribbling in. "No. But the boy's alive." He jerked his chin to where a trio of EMTs were working. "Pretty beat up, though. It looks like the guy dragged him from that door there," he gestured to a nearby emergency exit, "back behind the trash bins to work. I guess he must have seen us circling the building and decided he didn't want to risk doing it in the open. When we got the 920c, me and Froelich ran around to check all of the back exits. The kid managed to kick the dumpster as we went by. Thank god we heard him," he grimaced, "or we might not have known he was there until it was too late."

"What about the guy? The killer?"

"He bolted as soon as the kid made noise. We got a couple of shots off at him, but I don't think we hit him. We were going to chase after him, but Nightwing beat us to it."

"Nightwing." Robin's eyes widened. "Where is he?"

"He went after him. They ran that way." Redding pointed down a side street. "It was only Froelich and me on scene still, so we figured we'd let Nightwing snag him while we took care of the kid. I don't think he's come back yet, though. Maybe he's still chasing him; the guy was pretty quick for as old as he was."

"Old?"

"Yeah. Ancient-looking old codger with a big bundle of sticks. Don't know why he didn't drop those when he took off running, but it didn't seem to slow him down any, so..." Redding shrugged.

"Right. Thanks." Robin turned away and stared down the street the sergeant had indicated. Nothing moved down it as far as he could see. "Nightwing," he asked into his radio after he'd switched onto their private communications frequency. "...Nightwing, are you engaged?"

There was no answer. Robin shifted uncertainly. His brother had vanished in the direction of Red Hood's territory, just like they'd discussed might happen. Hood was the last person Robin wanted to meet tonight, especially on his own, but he couldn't just stand around while Nightwing chased a serial killer by himself. And even if the other vigilante took down the suspect without incurring any injuries or having to face down another mask, there was his icy mood of the night before to consider. For all that Nightwing was dedicated to the family's no killing rule, Robin sensed that leaving him alone with someone who had been caught in the act of beating a child to death might end badly.

"Nightwing," he tried one more time, his voice strained with concern. When nothing came back, he balled his fists and steeled his nerves. If he had to risk Red Hood's wrath in order to make sure that Nightwing didn't do something he would regret for the rest of his life, he would. "...I'm on my way," he told the empty air on his radio, and took off running.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I know some of you are probably wondering what this story has to do with Christmas other than the timing. I promise that all will be revealed in tomorrow's chapter. Happy reading!**


	7. Public Service, Part 3

He found them in a quiet, rundown little park surrounded by graffiti-marked housing projects. The faint glow of the few functioning streetlights revealed a face-off, with the rival combatants circling one another like territorial tomcats. Had bets been on offer, Nightwing would have been a heavy favorite over the rail-thin and wispy-haired elder he was up against. The masked figure's caution told Robin that there was more to this suspect than met the eye, however. Ready to act as back-up if it turned out to be needed, he sneaked closer to the impending battle.

There was still some twenty feet between Robin and the zone of action when the killer made his move. One pale hand darted to his belt, then swung high and around in a graceful arc. Robin couldn't see what was being aimed until Nightwing threw up an arm and intercepted it in mid-air. A thick, oily black snake of braided leather wrapped itself over the armor between his wrist and elbow with a nasty _thunk_. The whip's tongue licked up in a final effort to reach its target and managed to draw a thin line of red across its captor's cheek. Then Nightwing yanked his encircled limb backward, and his opponent found himself short one weapon.

The old man still had his bundle of birch sticks, though, and Robin knew all too well how effective he could be with it. He reached for a batarang, but a vice-like grip closed around his wrist before he could launch it. "Hey-!"

"Leave it," Red Hood growled. His fingers tightened, and Robin felt his hand begin to go numb. "I want to see this play out naturally. Don't fight me," he added as Robin made to twist out of his grasp. "Beating the shit out of you is only on my list of things to do tonight if Nightwing doesn't have a good reason for being here."

"That man's a serial killer!" Robin protested. "He ran in this direction when he realized he was caught, and Nightwing came after him."

"Okay, that explains him. Now what are _you_ doing here?"

"I came after Nightwing when I couldn't raise him on the radio."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want him to get hurt, or worse!" Robin winced as Nightwing dove for their quarry and barely missed being hit by the deftly-wielded birch bunch. "Now let me go so I can help him!"

He never found out whether or not Red Hood would have complied with his request and let him lend aid to their brother. As the last word hit the air, a wicked smirk twisted Nightwing's mouth. The night was already cold, but Robin would have sworn that the temperature dropped another ten degrees when he made that face. A pleased _hmph_ sounded beside him, and he realized that Red Hood knew as well as he did that Nightwing was walking a dangerous edge. There was no question that the vigilante would win – he took the old man to the ground with a jaguar-like lunge even as that thought crossed Robin's mind – but what he would do afterward was uncertain. "...Don't think he needs you, replacement."

"Let me go!" The fight might have been over, but that didn't mean that his partner didn't need his help.

"No."

"Hood." It was Nightwing's voice calling, but there was a dangerous crackle to it that Robin had never heard before. "Let him go."

"And if I say no?" Red Hood taunted.

Nightwing pulled a zip-tie tight around his prisoner's wrists, then moved down to his ankles. When he'd secured the killer, he stood up. His arms crossed themselves over his chest as a single line of blood ran from the cut below his eye to drip from his jaw. "Then I'll defend him, the same as I'd defend you against a threat."

"Bullshit."

A beat passed. "...Don't push me tonight, Hood. I don't want to fight you. I just want to get this murderer off the streets."

"Who says he's a murderer? He hasn't killed anyone in my district, but my district is where you're trying to arrest him. That's not okay, and you know it."

"I say he's murdered five children in as many days, and that he went for a sixth one tonight. _That's_ not okay no matter where he was, and you know it."

Robin felt Red Hood tense beside him. "...This guy's a kid-killer? You're not making that up?"

"I wouldn't make something like that up. I saw him fleeing the scene just now, and with weapons matching the previous victims' wounds in his possession. Is that good enough for you?"

"Sure."

"Then let Robin go, and we'll get out of your jurisdiction."

"Not with that prick in your possession, you won't. Unless," a sly note entered Red Hood's voice, "you want to do the honors before you go?" A gun appeared in his free hand, held out grip-first in offering. "You can even make it quick if you want. I don't mind."

"No!" Robin cried out. "Nightwing, _don't_!"

To his horror, Nightwing glanced down at the bound figure below him as if he was considering the proposition. "Hood," he sighed finally, "I happen to agree with you that this man doesn't deserve to live. But I'm not going to be the one who takes his life. Not like this. Not on purpose. Not like him."

Red Hood made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat. In an instant he had released Robin and was storming towards the man on the ground. He reversed his pistol as he walked, training its barrel on the gray-haired head. "Well if you're going to be a pussy about it-"

Nightwing stepped between Red Hood and the prisoner. "...No, Hood. I'm not going to kill him, and I'm not going to stand by and let him die, either."

"This prick murders children, and you want to let him live?!"

"No. I really _don't_ want to let him live. But I'm going to anyway, because it isn't my right to make that decision. And it isn't yours, either. So put the gun away."

"Or what? You'll defend him like you say you'd defend me?" A snort escaped the hooded figure. "Nice to know I rate on the same level as serial killers."

"…We're all human, Hood," Nightwing said softly, "but if I had to choose between the two I'd choose you every time."

"Then step. Aside."

This was getting them nowhere, and Robin couldn't stand the tension any more. "Don't you even want to question him before you blow his brains out?" he hollered. "There's a lot we don't know that only he can answer. How about we _don't_ throw away our opportunity to fill in the gaps in the case just to satisfy your vanity?"

Both of the masked men looked back at him. For a moment Robin was sure that he was about to either be shot or to witness the mask-on-mask fight of the decade. Then Nightwing spoke. "He has a point, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, god forbid the perfect little replacement ever make a stupid suggestion," Red Hood snarked. Despite the rage in his tone, he holstered his weapon. "...Well, are you going to fucking interrogate him or not?"

Nightwing didn't move right away. "Thank you," he said instead after a long, silent second had passed. "I...I know how hard that was."

"I didn't say I wasn't going to kill him later. Now hurry up, would you? I have things to do."

Robin approached as Nightwing brushed snow from a dilapidated bench and propped his prisoner up on it. All three of them leaned in towards the killer, who to his credit looked more defiant than scared. Robin wondered if he would have been as ballsy had Batman been looming over him.

"Who are you?" Nightwing asked in the same tone he'd initially used with Red Hood. "And why did you do what you did?"

"What if I don't want to talk?" came a sneer.

"Because if you don't I'll give you to Red Hood here. And I won't ask him to make things quick for you, either."

Robin wasn't sure if that was a bluff or not. He didn't particularly want to find out either way, so the old man's next words were a relief. "…You know what? I might as well tell you. I've been thinking a lot about my legacy, about the message my actions will leave behind. I want people to remember what I did. I want them to remember the purpose behind my actions." His eyes narrowed. "I want them to remember the Krampus Killer for generations to come."

"The _what_?" Red Hood snorted. "You're going to leave nothing but a legacy of laughter if you call yourself the Crampy Killer."

"He didn't say 'Crampy,' Hood," Nightwing corrected. "He said 'Krampus.' And that…that makes perfect sense."

Robin felt as if he'd heard the name before, but he couldn't place it. "Why does it make perfect sense?"

"Because Krampus is a Germanic folklore figure that acts as a sort of reverse Santa Claus. His night is the fifth of December; the same night that the killings started. And he uses a bundle of birch sticks or a whip – items that match the wounds on the bodies – to punish children who behave poorly or who don't emulate the spirit of the season."

"He sends them to the underworld," the killer added. "…Just like I did. I know there's no such thing as Krampus in real life. I'm not insane. But I'm sick and tired of kids being so goddamn rude and disrespectful. Someone had to do something to knock a little sense into all the brats running around this city. Wish I could have dressed up like Krampus – that would have scared them straight before I killed them. I couldn't have explained that if someone saw me, though, so I had to skip it."

"You would have stuck out in a crowd with long horns, lots of hair, and hooves," Nightwing grimaced, "but you wouldn't have been any scarier than you already are."

"Getting to you, too, am I?"

"No. But you're a sick human being."

"If he wants to be this Krampus guy so bad, I vote we treat him like he is," Red Hood proposed. Something approaching bloodlust underlined his words, and Robin instinctively took a step away from him. "Krampus isn't human, right? So we don't have to treat this bastard like he is."

"As much as he might want to be Krampus," Nightwing ground out, "he isn't. He's still human, and that means he's got a human name. So what is it? Who are you?"

"I told you. I'm the Krampus Killer."

"What was your name before that?" It was clear that Nightwing's normally inexhaustible patience was wearing thin. If the old man didn't start cooperating more, Robin suspected that Red Hood might be allowed to get a few licks in after all.

The killer's face worked for a moment as if he was struggling to recall his real name. "Walt Malone," he said finally. "That's the name on my ID. Walter Gene Malone. But if you didn't already know that, then how did you know where to look for me? There are hundreds of places in this city I could have hit tonight, so why were you near the one I happened to choose for tonight?"

"Pretty sure we're the ones asking the questions, smartass," Red Hood hissed.

"Gotham Fire and Safety ring a bell to you, Malone?" Nightwing asked, ignoring Hood's comment.

Malone's expression turned incredulous. "You weren't supposed to figure that out! I was so careful…"

Robin frowned. "But the police checked all of the Gotham Fire and Safety employees. Everyone had an alibi. What do you have to do with them?"

"I'm retired. I left them six weeks ago. Kept it a secret from my clients, of course, but I don't show on the company roster any more. Before I retired," Malone said proudly, "I was the best hardware tech in Gotham. I could wire any system, sort out any stuck trigger, you name it. Most of those businesses they have on contract for service only signed up because of my work. I know their alarms inside and out."

"Which meant you could disarm them as easily as you could arm them," Nightwing concluded. "You took a lifetime of expertise in a field designed to save lives and turned it into a tool for killing."

"Yeah, but again, you weren't supposed to figure that out. I took the extra risk of grabbing a couple of the kids through unalarmed doors for a reason. I made sure the businesses didn't all have the same alarm system, too. I was smart about it, and it still didn't matter." A vague sort of respect dawned in Malone's gaze. "Which one of you came up with looking at the servicing company, anyway?"

"…I did," Robin volunteered. He didn't really want praise from a serial killer, but he wasn't going to try and cover up his role in the man's capture. If nothing else the admission might earn him a couple of points in Red Hood's eyes. He didn't care about the second Robin's opinion of him for the most part, but maybe if it was a little higher the other vigilante would hesitate before attacking him in the future.

"Shit," Red Hood muttered on the far side of Nightwing. "Goddamn replacement…"

So much for that. Ignoring the bitterness that had been in those three words, Robin addressed Malone. "The kids…they were just random, then? Whoever you saw first?"

"Hell, no. Krampus doesn't go after good kids. He takes the bad ones. I went for kids that I saw acting up. Throwing hissies about candy, not listening to what their parents told them to do…things like that. I watched one of those little shits steal a pack of gum. The security cameras in most places can be monitored remotely these days, and I still have the passwords memorized for most of them. Nobody ever changes their passwords as often as they should, you know?

"It was nothing to pick out a brat and then monitor them through an app on my phone until they got close to an exit I had access to. Sometimes I'd pick a kid out, and they'd never get in position for me to grab. Then I had to find another one and try again. There are so many snots out and about this time of year that I didn't usually have to wait long. But I never laid a finger on a good kid, I swear. I had plenty of opportunities, but I let them walk by. The ones I snatched all deserved what they got."

Suddenly Malone was no longer sitting up, as Nightwing had plastered him flat against the seat of the bench. He held him there with one hand around his throat, a vicious snarl curling his lips. "You murdered children," he accused, "for being _children_."

"I was doing a public service!" Malone choked out. "I was getting rid of the bad ones!"

"No! You weren't! None of them was a 'bad one.' They were just. Being. Children. And even if they hadn't been, they wouldn't have deserved what you did to them. How _dare_ you." Nightwing's fingers clenched, and Malone wheezed helplessly beneath him. "How dare you…"

"Heh," Red Hood laughed. "You screwed up royally, Crampy. Not even the Joker gets Blue going like this."

Such egging on couldn't possibly help Nightwing make the right decision, Robin knew. Determined to throw the taunter off of his game, he gave a risky reply. "And how does that make you feel, Red Hood? Good? Bad? Indifferent?"

A gloved hand rose to rest on the butt of a pistol. "Watch your mouth, replacement, or Crampy won't be the only one fixing to die."

"Then stop-"

"Both of you stop." Nightwing pulled away from Malone with a look of regret. Whether that regret was for having attacked a bound man or for letting up before he was a dead man Robin didn't know, but at least the murderous spell seemed to have passed. "…No one is dying tonight."

"No child-killer is leaving my territory alive, Nightwing," Red Hood insisted.

Nightwing straightened and turned to face him. "So what do you want to do about it, Hood? Because if you won't let me and Robin take him with us the only option left to me is to call in the police and stand guard until they get here and secure him. I don't think you want tons of cops around here any more than you want us around. Right?"

A twitch in the fabric that covered Red Hood's face told Robin that he was making some sort of awful expression beneath his disguise. "…You know, you're a real buzzkill sometimes, Nightwing. No wonder you're _his_ favorite. You're just like him."

"That's not true, Hood."

"Whatever. You want this prick to keep breathing? Fine. Take him. But if I ever see him again, he's dead, whether you're with him or not. And _you_ ," Red Hood snapped at Robin, "stay the fuck out of my territory. I don't care if someone's in here pulling precious Nightwing apart at the seams, you don't put one toe over my lines. Got it?"

"…Got it," Robin agreed. He was lying – he'd run into hell itself after Nightwing if it was necessary, even if he did have to work up his courage first – but right now getting everyone out of this park in one piece was more important than stating his loyalty.

Red Hood lifted his grappling gun and prepared to leave. Just before he pulled the trigger, Nightwing spoke his name. "Hood."

"What do you want?"

"In case I don't see you again beforehand…Merry Christmas."

"…Shut the hell up, Nightwing." And then, as fast as he'd come, Red Hood was gone.

Nightwing stared after the second Robin for a long moment. Then he hugged himself tightly and let out a low whisper. "Let's get out of here, huh?"

"You won't get any argument from me." Robin stepped forward and grabbed Malone under one arm. Nightwing took the other side, and together they walked the serial killer towards his fate.

* * *

They didn't have a private moment together until after Malone had been taken away and they'd relayed everything he'd said to Commissioner Gordon. Visibly shaken by the murderer's revelations, Gordon gave them his thanks and promised to let them know once he'd verified everything. Then, with no reason for them to stay any longer, Nightwing turned to Robin and repeated what he'd said just after Red Hood's departure. "Let's get out of here, huh?"

A few minutes of swinging delivered them to where they'd left the Batmobile, and before long they were roaring into the hills on the outskirts of the city. Robin had been processing everything silently in the passenger seat, but now he turned to his brother and asked the question that had been bothering him since before he'd gone bolting into Red Hood's territory. "Nightwing?"

"Hmm?"

"Why didn't you answer when I radioed you?"

Nightwing glanced over at him with a frown. "Did you radio me? When?"

"After you took off chasing Malone, but before I showed up behind you. I tried three times, and you didn't answer."

"…Wow. I…I didn't hear it." He paused. "I was pretty far gone over that guy, wasn't I?"

"Yeah. You were. But…"

"But what?"

"But you didn't do it. You didn't kill him. I really thought you would, I have to admit. There were a couple of moments…there were a couple of moments when I was scared that you would. I'm glad you didn't."

"Me, too, little brother. It was close. I hate that fact, but it's the truth. I wanted to end him. I wanted to end him so badly, and I wanted to do it myself. No batarangs, no nets, just…my own two hands. I really wanted that, and it was so hard to hold myself back. Hood's comments only made it worse, because I agreed with so much of what he was saying. In fact…" Nightwing pressed a series of buttons on the steering wheel, then removed his hands from it. The car guided itself along the road as he pushed his lenses up and turned to face Robin fully. "I'm lucky you were there tonight," he said, his eyes dark with gratitude.

"What do you mean?" He hadn't really done anything, in retrospect. Nightwing could have reached the same end result even if Robin hadn't been out with him at all.

"I mean you distracted me from the rage. The first time, right after I'd tackled Malone, I heard you tell Hood to let you go. I had to stop what I was doing and make sure he wasn't hurting you. Then, when he offered me his gun, you begged me not to do it. You reminded me that you were standing there, watching my every move. And the last time – the worst time, when Malone said that those kids _deserved_ to die – what you said to Jason was so bad, so startling, that I knew I was going to have to intervene."

"Yeah…" Remembering the desperate, foolish words that had come out of his mouth, Robin shuddered. If Nightwing hadn't been there, he wondered, would he be dead right now for that remark? "Sorry. I know that was probably as painful for you as it was for him." He'd meant to wound Jason, not Dick, and he regretted the collateral damage.

"Yes. It was. But I'd rather hear something that makes me hurt than not hear it and end up killing someone. Even if that someone really doesn't deserve to live in my opinion. The point is that if it had just been me and Red Hood with Malone, or even just me, I don't know that I could have kept myself from killing him. I really don't. I hope I could have, but…I don't know."

"You aren't a killer." No matter how fearful he had been this evening that events would prove otherwise, Robin had to believe that.

A short silence drew out. "Someday, Robin," Nightwing mused aloud, "you may come across someone who touches a nerve deep inside your soul. You might know ahead of time what sort of crime it takes to affect you like that, or you might not. Either way, you'll find out that that nerve runs straight to the blackest part of your being. Until that happens – until that anger, that rage, gets stirred into life after a lifetime of being tamped down – you can't possibly know how powerful it is. When somebody touches that nerve and lets your ire off of its leash, it's nearly impossible to get control of before it's too late. Fortunately you were there to rouse the only part of me that could have wrangled that beast. You put me in big-brother protective mode, and it was enough. Barely, but it was enough."

"That sounds like something Batman would say."

"Yeah. It kind of does. I guess maybe now I understand how he feels sometimes when…well. Sometimes. Like I said, you have to go through it to really get it. But I hope you never get it, Robin. I really, really do."

Robin hoped he never understood, too, because the entire ordeal sounded awful. If Nightwing, who was so much stronger than he was, could barely handle it, then he wouldn't have a chance. Unwilling to dwell on that thought, he redirected the conversation. "…So your trigger is people hurting kids?"

"It's a bit more specific than that, but yes. Let's just say that there's a lot of what happened to Jason tied up in my darkest corners, and leave it at that."

Crowbars, bundles of sticks, whips…the instrument that was used didn't really matter if the end result and the speed at which it was reached were the same. "And Batman's?"

Nightwing swallowed hard, and his gaze flickered away for a moment. "I don't know for sure. I have suspicions, but…well, that's all they are. Suspicions."

Robin had suspicions of his own, but he hadn't really expected Nightwing to confirm them. Red Hood's remarks about Nightwing being Batman's favorite weren't off the mark at all, at least not in Robin's opinion, and the only time he had ever sensed that Batman's hold on control was tenuous as Nightwing's had been tonight was when that favorite was in real danger. It didn't hurt his feelings any to acknowledge the eldest bird's likely position in their mentor's heart, but he let the topic go out of respect for the other vigilante's reticence.

"Anyway," Nightwing said in a lighter tone when the car had been quiet for a mile or so, "we got Malone, and that's what matters. It's over now. Batman should be back tonight; he'll be glad he doesn't have to jump right into a big case on the tail end of an off-world mission." He reached up and fingered the thin cut Malone's whip had left on his cheek. It was no longer bleeding, but there wasn't going to be a good way to hide it until it healed. "…What do you think? Am I going to have a wicked scar?"

Robin looked at the wound exactly long enough to form an opinion, then tore his gaze away. "It's shallow. It probably won't be bad. Alfred will know for sure." Alfred. Home. Bed, but without strange dreams featuring locked doors and screaming children. Such prospects felt like gifts after the events of the last twenty-four hours. "But Nightwing?"

"Hmm?"

"Even if it does scar…you can pull it off. To be honest, I think you can pull off just about anything."

Nightwing smiled. The expression was warm, and carried none of the frigid wrath that had radiated from the man over the last day. "Thanks, Timmy," he said. "But don't forget…so can you. You're a Robin, after all, and we're pretty freaking awesome."

Robin wasn't sure he would extend that praise to include Jason, but he wasn't going to debate a compliment that he knew had been meant for him personally. Besides, Dick was a Robin, too, and two out of three wasn't a bad record. "You're right," he smiled as he settled back in his seat and let his worries go. "We are."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Well, that was fun. I'd like to say well done to the folks who caught on that we had a Krampus-style killer on our hands; there weren't many clues to go on, so good job!**

 **I know that was a bit heavier than most of my Christmas stories, so we'll have a happy story from the perspective of a young John Bruce Grayson next. See you tomorrow!**


	8. A Night Out

**Author's Note: For those of you who are unfamiliar with him, John Bruce Grayson is the son of Dick and Barbara Gordon, and a character of my own creation. He has appeared in previous 'Counting' stories as well as in a stand-alone story entitled 'Blame Game.' None of those stories are necessarily connected to this one (or to one another), but I like to include a little piece with Johnny every Christmas.**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

John Bruce Grayson pulled at his clothes and let out a small whine. He was used to Alfred dressing him, but today the butler had put him in strange, stiff garments that he did not like. First had come the pants, which weren't so bad in and of themselves. Then there had been the shirt, which didn't pull over his head like usual but instead had to be buttoned up in the front. It had a collar, which felt funny against his throat, and tight parts at the ends of the sleeves that didn't move like the wrist fabric of his one-piece pajamas did. The vest that had gone over the shirt made him feel like he was wearing the ends of his sleeves around his whole torso. Now his feet were being placed inside unfamiliar shoes, and instead of the _zip_ of velcro the air was filled with Alfred's muttered comments about impossibly tiny bows. "...Owfred?"

Alfred looked up at him, and the faint frown that had been on his lips disappeared. "Yes, Master John? What is it?"

Johnny pulled at the bottom of his vest and made a face. "Yuck."

"...Ah. I see you've inherited your father's dislike of formal clothing."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, your daddy is just as unhappy in a suit as you are, young sir."

"Aw, does little bit not like his fancy clothes?"

Johnny's head whipped around to face the door at the sound of that voice. "Daddy!" he cheered, and held his arms out. As his father came forward, though, the boy changed tacks. Grabbing his clothes again, he repeated his earlier sentiment. "Yuck, daddy."

A second later he was sitting securely in the new arrival's grasp. "I know they're yuck," daddy commiserated, "but sometimes you just have to put up with them. At least you look adorable in them." A finger poked his stomach, and Johnny giggled. The cloth covering his bearer's shoulder was as sleek and unwelcoming as the stuff he was wearing himself, but he let his cheek rest on it anyway. Underneath all that unpleasantness was his favorite person in the world, and that meant that a bit of yuck was worth putting up with. "...Don't drool on me, okay, Johnny-boy? There's no time to clean it off if you do."

"I'm still not sure it's wise to take a two-year-old to the Foundation's holiday concert, Master Dick," Alfred fretted. "If he becomes fussy you'll have to miss at least part of the music, and you and Master Wayne do enjoy this outing together so."

"I know. But Babs wants him exposed to as much culture as possible early on. Besides, this is an easy and highly controlled way for the paparazzi to get a little glimpse of him. You know how they've been ever since he was born, constantly circling for shots. I think they're worse with him than they ever were with me. But then they didn't care about me yet when I was still at the utterly huggable stage like Johnny."

"Oh, I don't know about that, sir," Alfred said temperately. A secret grin was playing around his lips, and while Johnny didn't understand it he liked the sight of it. "But you make two very good points, and it's hardly my place to argue in any case."

"You know we value your input on Johnny's upbringing. And on the next one's upbringing, too."

"A fact I'm quite grateful for, Master Dick, I assure you. On the note of the next one, how is Miss Barbara this evening?"

"Clinging to the toilet like gravity's given out and it's her only connection to the earth." Daddy's gaze turned down and met Johnny's. "Your little sister is giving mama a much harder time than you did, kiddo. Let's hope that doesn't keep up once she's born, huh?"

Johnny cocked his head. His mother had been sick a great deal lately, and her stomach had started to pooch out and take up the space he normally occupied in her lap, too. "Mama yuck?" he asked.

"Yeah, mama's still yuck. But she'll feel better before you know it."

"I'm certain that Miss Mary will prove as good a sport as Master John when all is said and done," Alfred opined. "Now, you'd both better hurry downstairs if you don't want to be late. The others will be waiting. Oh, no, one moment," he called them back as they turned to go. "I promised Miss Barbara I would take pictures if she was too unwell to do so herself." His phone, a mystical object that Johnny coveted a great deal due to the butler's adamant refusal to let him play with it, appeared in his hand. "Smile now, Master John..."

A minute later Johnny found himself being whisked down to the foyer on his father's shoulders. He giggled happily as they skipped the last step and, for the briefest moment, were airborne. "Daddy! More!"

"Sorry, chum," another much-loved voice sounded from behind him. Johnny hadn't noticed anyone coming down the stairs with them, but now new hands, broader and heavier than his father's but infinitely gentle nonetheless, caught him under the arms and pulled him backwards into a hug. "We're on a time line tonight."

"Grampa Bru!" Johnny squealed. He hadn't seen his father's father since bedtime the previous night, and now his face met a different plain of suiting material as he returned the man's tight embrace.

"Get your coat," a rumble ran through the throat next to Johnny's forehead. "I'll put Johnny in the car."

"What about you? You'll freeze in just your suit jacket."

"My coat's in the car, the same as kiddo here's. It's hot in there, so Tim and Damian can get him squared away in the backseat once we're in town. There's no point in making him hot and miserable before we even get to the concert hall."

"Okay. See you in a minute, then. Be good, little bit."

The few seconds after they left the house were cold ones. Johnny buried himself closer to his grandfather, then pulled away and looked around curiously when a wave of warmth washed over him. Someone drew him into the heat of the car and swung him carefully into the middle seat, and Grandpa vanished. The comforting cushion of his car seat took Johnny in before he could protest the transfer, and he sat patiently as his father's brothers fastened him into place.

"Drake, that doesn't go there," Uncle Damian said in an exasperated tone.

"I know that," Uncle Tim sighed back. "I was trying to reach the _other_ buckle, but your hand was in the way..."

"I would think with as much practice as you two get you'd have that car seat down to a science by now," came daddy's voice, along with a rush of frigid air as he dropped into the passenger seat.

"Daddy!" Johnny could see the outline of his head, but he couldn't reach him no matter how hard he pushed against his bonds.

"Right here, Johnny-boy. Relax."

"Here, Tiny." Uncle Damian produced a bright plastic console with a steering wheel in the middle from somewhere under his seat. "You can drive us there. Or into a snowbank, which would probably be more fun."

"Daaami," daddy chastised from the front seat. "Come on. Set a good example for Johnny, okay? He's never been to one of these before."

"Yeah, Damian," Uncle Tim smirked. "Johnny's whining less than you are, and he's fifteen years your junior."

"You know something, Drake?"

"What's that?"

"I'm..." Uncle Damian paused. "...I'm not going to rise to that. Not in front of Tiny, at least."

A surprised beat passed. Johnny, impressed by the silence that had fallen, decided it was a good time to try out the new word he'd learned that morning. "Wow!"

He wasn't sure why everyone else began to laugh after that, but he joined in anyway.

* * *

"...Wow," he said again a little over an hour later. He'd taken a nap in the car, and now he was wide awake as he was carried through a full, buzzing lobby. There were more people here than he'd ever seen in his life, but Grandpa had no problem making his way through them. They parted in front of him like magic, pushed back by lines of identically-dressed men with radios hanging from their belts. The glittering masses craned around each other to gawk and stare, and after a moment Johnny realized that they were gesturing at _him._ A brief uncertainty filled him, and his lips turned down. He glanced up at the man who was bearing him forward through the scrum. "Grampa?"

"It's okay, chum. I've got you."

That was enough for Johnny. Blinking out at the hundreds who were pressing to see him, he smiled. They seemed nice, and his mother always told him that he should be nice to those who were nice to him. Raising both hands, he waved at them. "Hi!"

A sort of coo rolled over the assembly, and dozens of loud clicks sounded. Johnny could feel Grandpa Bruce chuckling as they left the sumptuous entryway behind and started up a flight of stairs. "That was perfect, kiddo," the man whispered in his ear. "Absolutely perfect."

They turned and passed through a door. To Johnny's delight they seemed to be suspended in the air along the side of a grand open space. His eyes roved over the lines of seats a story below them, then traveled forward to the golden-hued stage. More people, these ones dressed in black and white, sat there with strangely shaped items of different sizes in their hands. They were flanked by two tall, sparkling trees whose apexes were nearly level with the box in which he stood. "Wow!" he exclaimed at the top of his lungs.

"Shh, quiet down, chum," Grandpa hushed him, but Johnny wasn't fooled. He could feel the same tremors of amusement running through the chest behind him as before, and he knew that he wasn't really being ordered to lower his voice.

"That!" he said, pointing at the hall that spread out before them. There was so much that he wanted to explain specifically, but he lacked the words to do so. That was okay, though; Grandpa Bruce always knew what he was trying to say. Sure enough, a soft smile broke across the man's face.

"It's pretty, isn't it? I like sitting up here, too."

"...Pitty?" It was a word he'd heard his father call his mother on multiple occasions, but he'd never before grasped that it referred to bright, enticing scenes like the one visible over the edge of the balcony.

"That's right. Pretty. Good job."

"C'mere, little bit," daddy broke into the conversation. "Let me see you for a minute." Johnny squirmed as he was taken from his grandfather's arms, annoyed at having his talk interrupted. Then a baggie of his favorite cereal appeared, and he calmed. "Oh-ohs," he identified them happily.

"Yup. Eat your Cheerios."

"You're feeding him _now_?" Uncle Damian asked from his seat.

"The concert won't start for another five or ten minutes," daddy answered. "This way he can get the crunching out of the way now. Plus he won't get hungry in the middle of everything." "...I guess that makes sense."

Johnny let the talk of his family and the general chatter from the people filling the rows below wash over him as he ate. Just as he reached the bottom of his bag of cereal, the lights began to dim. He peered up at the ceiling, then tilted his head backwards until he could see his father. "Night-night?"

"No, Johnny, it's not night-night," daddy murmured back. "It's time for the show. Let's be quiet and good, okay? Here..." He lifted him so that Johnny stood on his leg. "Can you see better now?"

He could. The only glow now came from the stage, where the people who looked like penguins still sat. The funny boxes and sticks he had noted earlier were no longer resting on their knees, but had instead been lifted to their lips or squeezed between their chins and shoulders. Further on he saw that some of the penguins' weird toys were too big for them to hold, and had to sit on the floor. The room had quieted, and there was a weight in the air that suggested something big was coming. Eyes wide, Johnny held his breath.

Then, suddenly, music happened. It took him a moment, but before long he deduced that the sounds were coming from those strange things that the penguins were playing with. The song was energetic and joyful, and Johnny liked it. Bending his knees, he smiled and moved his body up and down to the noise. Daddy helped him, taking his wrists into his hands and waving his arms back and forth in time with the beat. Johnny began to giggle, and was swiftly hushed. He kept dancing even though he wasn't allowed to make noise, bobbing around to one, then two, then three songs in a row.

A slower piece started next, and although daddy tried to keep him moving Johnny quickly lost interest. For a short while it was enough to just stand on his father's legs and stare out at the audience. Nobody was moving down there, however, and soon that was boring too. When the music stopped again and applause rose to the rafters, he asked a hopeful question. "All done?"

"Sorry, Johnny," Uncle Tim answered from the next seat over. "It's not all done yet. There's still four more songs before intermission."

"And then eight hundred more in the second half," Uncle Damian grumbled. Daddy arched an eyebrow at him, and Uncle Damian gave a wave of his hand. "I know, I know, set a good example. I'm not going to apologize for agreeing with Tiny, though."

There was no more time for talk after that, as another song was beginning. Remembering that daddy had hushed him before, Johnny waited for as long as he could. The music went on and on, though, and he didn't want to sit here anymore. "...Daddy?"

"Shh, little bit. We have to be quiet and still right now."

Frustrated, Johnny squirmed. He'd been still all the way to town in the car, and now he'd been still listening to music. It was time to move, to run around, to do something. "Mmpf!" he complained as his father tried to hold him in place.

"Johnny-"

"Here," Uncle Damian whispered. "Give him to me. I have an idea."

"Go to Uncle Dami, kiddo," daddy ordered, and Johnny felt his feet finally hit the floor. He scampered the two steps to his uncle, who immediately lifted him. For a moment he was disappointed; was Uncle Damian about to try and force him to sit in one place, too?

Then the teen stood up and walked towards the door they had entered through, and Johnny's mood brightened. "Owside?" he inquired.

"Yeah, Tiny," Uncle Damian murmured back. "We're going outside for a little while. I think we both need a break."

An attendant directed them to a deserted back hallway where they could move around without disturbing the show or encountering the cameramen who were still loitering in the lobby. There Johnny's feet hit the floor again, and to his pleasure no one told him to stop when he took off running. The corridor ended at a closed door. Turning around, he raced back to his uncle. Back and forth he went, over and over again, burning off the energy that had been building up ever since Alfred had started buttoning him into his suit.

Now the only problem was that he didn't have a playmate. "Unca Dami!" Grabbing hold of a hand that wasn't far off of his grandfather's in terms of size, he pulled.

"You want me to run with you?"

Johnny pulled harder.

"Okay, Tiny. Let's run."

They made several trips up and down the hall together before Johnny plopped down against the wall. "Hi," he said when Uncle Damian stood with crossed arms and stared down at him.

"Hi." The teen's gaze slipped to a nearby machine that Johnny had noticed before but not paid any attention to. "You still hungry? Let's get something."

They examined what was on offer. All of it was unfamiliar to the boy, who had spent his entire life thus far being fed fresh foods prepared by Alfred and, on special occasions or when his parents wanted to distract him, handfuls of Cheerios. Eventually Uncle Damian pushed a series of buttons, and something fell past the window. "Uh-oh!" Johnny exclaimed, thinking they'd broken it.

"It's okay, Tiny. Here, stick your hand in there." Uncle Damian pushed open a flap that was just low enough for Johnny to get his arm into. He groped around inside until his hand met crunchy packaging. "There," Uncle Damian smirked when Johnny had pulled the bag out. "I think it's about time you were introduced to Cheetos. Just don't tell Pennyworth, got it?"

"Owfred?"

"Right."

Intense flavor filled Johnny's mouth when the first morsel of machine food passed his lips. "Wooow," he drew out. "More?"

"You bet, kid. Here."

The experience was over too soon. "More?"

"Sorry, Tiny. We ate them all, and I'm out of cash. There's no credit card reader on the vending machine, or I'd get you more. Next time we go out we'll have more, okay? Here…" Uncle Damian handed him the crumpled-up bag that the delicious food had come out of. "Go throw that away. There's the trash can, see it?"

Throwing away trash was a hobby of Johnny's, so he ran to the garbage without arguing. Before he tossed the refuse inside, though, he unballed it and opened it up. There was nothing to see except shiny foil and a few crumbs. Wanting to be absolutely certain he hadn't missed anything, he turned the bag upside down above his head and peered up into it.

"Johnny!"

Daddy's voice hit his ears just as a fine dusting of cheese powder wafted down onto his face. A sneeze escaped him, and he blinked hard. Then he licked his lips, put the empty bag in the receptacle, and turned to his stunned-looking father. "Hi, daddy!"

"Johnny, you're all…orange…"

"That wasn't supposed to happen," Uncle Damian put in nervously as he joined them. "I didn't think he'd do that. He was just supposed to throw it away!"

"…Uh-oh?" Johnny asked. For some reason he had the feeling that he'd done something bad.

But daddy's expression had changed from disbelief to mirth. "Well, that's what you get when you feed a toddler Cheetos on the sly, Dami," he joked. "I have to take a picture of this."

"What if Pennyworth sees it?!"

"He won't. I promise. And even if he did, one bag of Cheetos isn't going to stunt Johnny's growth." Daddy crouched down with his phone in front of his face. "Say 'uh-oh,' little bit."

Johnny grinned broadly. He wasn't in trouble, and he got to ham for the camera besides. "Uh-oh!"

Most of intermission was spent getting cleaned up in the bathroom with daddy and Uncle Dami. Once his face and hands were freshly scrubbed the trio made their way back into the high box they'd occupied before. "We were looking for you. What happened?" Uncle Tim asked as they filed into their seats.

"Cheeto incident," daddy reported. "No big deal."

Uncle Tim shot a look towards Uncle Damian. "Cheetos? Seriously?"

"Hey, he liked them!"

"Keep it under your hat, okay, Timmy? No reason to get Alfred all riled over it."

"…Yeah, okay. I guess so long as Johnny's fine."

"They were Cheetos, not rattlesnakes, Drake."

"Shh," Grandpa Bruce frowned down the line at them all. The lights had gone down during the argument, and the orchestra was warming up out of Johnny's sight. As one, they all fell silent.

The second half of the concert went much as the first had. A couple of fast songs led off, to which Johnny dipped and bobbed under his father's tutelage. Then the music slowed again, and his boredom returned. Rather than squirming, though, he tried a new tactic to escape. Going limp, he slithered out of daddy's grasp and onto the floor. "Johnny," a quiet moan sounded over his head. "C'mon, kiddo, be good…"

"He can't help it," Grandpa's low voice contributed. "For his age, he's being very well behaved. Here, chum, come see me."

Johnny stood and made his way towards that summons. Grandpa swept him up, and for a second Johnny thought they were going back to the hallway he'd run down with Uncle Damian. Instead they melted back into the shadows at the corner of the box. Lips formed words against his ear. "There. Now anyone who looks up here can't see us. We're hiding. But we can't hide if we're not quiet, now can we? Someday I'll teach you how to disappear into the darkness, but learning how to be quiet and just watch is a good enough start for now.

"Let's see what's happening. Do you see the man in the white coat with the baton in his hand? That's the conductor. He helps the orchestra keep in time, and guides them through the movements. Tonight's conductor is named Edward Zesiger. He's very well-known in his field. Look at his expressions; do you see how deeply he feels the music? You can learn a lot about a person from all the tiny muscles in their face. Most people can't consciously control all of those muscles, especially when they're distracted or carried away. Zesiger probably doesn't have any idea what kind of faces he's making right now. All he knows is the music…"

Grandpa Bruce's commentary filled Johnny's head. He didn't fully fathom the meaning of everything that was being said, but something in his grandfather's tone told him that he should pay attention anyway. He collected as much as he could, and followed the man's finger when he pointed out something new in the space below. The soft hum of information flowing into his brain and the melodious music in the background eventually lulled him into passivity. His wish to climb down and run around thoroughly quashed, Johnny let his head fall onto a solid shoulder and slowly closed his eyes.

* * *

When he awoke he was being tucked into his own bed. The stiff, uncomfortable outfit Alfred had chosen for him had been replaced with his favorite black footie pajamas with the single blue stripe. "Mama," he said as he recognized the person putting him down. "Mama no yuck?"

She brushed a cool hand across his forehead and returned his smile. "No, sweetheart, I don't feel yucky right now."

Johnny wasn't sure he believed her – she was pale, and her hair looked like it hadn't been washed in some time – but he didn't know how to argue. All he could do was say something that might make her happy. Thinking hard, he recalled the new word he had learned from Grandpa Bruce earlier in the evening. His mother, he thought, should be bright and golden like the stage full of penguins with funny toys had been. Maybe if he told her she was she really would be. "Mama pitty," he offered.

Her smile broadened, and for a moment she was radiant. Bending down, she kissed his cheek. "You are _so_ your father's son, John Bruce Grayson," she murmured. "I love you."

"Love mama."

"I'm glad. Now go back to sleep; I'll see you in the morning. Or daddy will, if I'm sick again. Or if he's at work…well. There will be someone who loves you. Don't you ever worry about that."

If mama wasn't worried, neither was Johnny. "Night-night?" he asked as she retreated to the door and turned out the light.

"Night-night," she nodded in the faint glow of his Batman nightlight. "Night-night, baby. Sweet dreams."

Johnny pulled the old stuffed elephant that had once comforted his father into his arms, closed his eyes once more, and fell into exactly the sort of dreams his mother had wished for him.


	9. Willow and Bamboo

**Author's Note: Here's an introspective little piece from Alfred's point of view. Happy reading!**

* * *

What Alfred remembered most was the pain. The pain of finding a tear-dampened pillow every time he checked on his sleeping charge; the pain of seeing an utter lack of excitement evinced for a holiday that all but the most callous of children adored; the pain of knowing that no matter how hard he tried he could do nothing to make things right again. Christmas was supposed to be a joyous season, but the first one after the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne had been bereft of happiness. Alfred remembered every waking moment of that awful December, and he hated those memories.

His brain forced him back through them annually, however, and this year had been no exception. The difference was that now there was another little boy in the house who was dealing with his first Christmas without his parents. Alfred had feared that seeing Dick go through the same agonies as Bruce had twenty years before would make his own recollections doubly unbearable. Instead he'd found that his misery was halved. There was no explanation for the effect other than the child himself. While Bruce had been inconsolable that first winter – a completely understandable reaction to the tragedy he'd suffered – Dick seemed determined to be resilient. It was that single factor, Alfred was certain, that was making all the difference.

That wasn't to say that the last few weeks had been all smooth sailing. Dick had shed his fair share of sad tears, and there had been one complete breakdown when he'd realized that his mother's voice would never again read him to sleep with 'Twas the Night Before Christmas'. More often than not, however, a hug and a few minutes to cry without judgment were all it took to bring him around to a sniffly version of his usual sunny self. Dick seemed to accept that things were what they were, and that while it was fine to grieve his loss it wouldn't do to lose himself in the depths of sadness.

If only Bruce had been so pliant when the hurricane of loss had roared through his life. To Alfred, inveterate horticulturalist that he was, Dick was like bamboo; strong and lush, but capable of bending under even the greatest wind and then bouncing back to the way he'd been before. Bruce, by contrast, was a willow, remarkably difficult to destroy as a whole but prone to shearing off bits of its being when the gale was too intense. Those dropped branches could regrow, but they took years or decades to do so even with the most attentive care.

The violent pruning that had taken place in Bruce's sixth summer had left Alfred with a child who was withdrawn, single-minded, and prone to fits of dourness; more a stump of a person, really, than the spreading sapling he'd been before. All of those traits had been present to some extent ever since the boy's personality had begun to emerge, but with the veiling foliage of sociability and affableness that Martha Wayne had so lovingly coaxed to grow since day one of her son's life stripped away they stuck out as his dominant features.

Alfred had expected the first Christmas after the murder of his employers to be difficult, but he had harbored a faint hope that such a child- and goodwill-centered holiday would encourage those broken limbs to regenerate and bud anew. With that goal in mind he had labored to fill the month with special activities and other things that might spur his charge's recovery. There had been sleigh rides, sledding, and more sugar and screen time than he would ever have allowed previously. He had developed an advent calendar that allowed Bruce to open a small, inconsequential gift each day, just the sort of thing that the boy would have gone wild for in years past. Above all he had tried to give him a sense of control over how the holiday was celebrated by offering to modify or skip traditions that had been non-negotiable before and by asking if there was anything in particular that _he_ wanted to do.

Whatever the child had wanted that month, Alfred would have given him. It had all been in vain, however, because what Bruce had wanted above all was solitude. He had emerged from that winter's self-imposed darkness with new cover, but it hadn't been the sort that Alfred had so wished to see. In the place of the soft, innocent leaves of childhood blades of subterfuge and calculation had sprouted. These looked much the same as the previous greenery – indeed, the similarity was so great that all of Gotham society was fooled to this very day – but the butler knew that they were intended to gather and process cold, hard data rather than the warm sunlight of human interaction.

Despite that setback, Alfred had remained convinced that true kindness and joy still existed in the boy he thought of more and more as his own, and that those sentiments had simply retreated deep into his core. The problem was that he had no idea how to draw them back up and encourage them to blossom. He had been reduced to waiting, and every year since then all he had hoped to find under the Christmas tree was a semblance, a hint, a hopeful glint of the Bruce that he knew was hiding.

It was only today, when it seemed the most unlikely to happen, that he'd gotten his gift. Alfred had noted a resurgence of gentleness and love in his elder charge as soon as Dick had entered their lives the previous spring, but he'd harbored real fear over the damage that a bad first December might do to those still-fragile tendrils. The ache in Bruce's eyes when Dick cried over his parents or had a bad dream concerning them was a feeling he knew all too well from personal experience, and he wouldn't have blamed the younger man for pulling back again in order to spare himself.

But the bamboo had bent rather than broken, and the willow, it seemed, had taken a lesson from it. This morning, Christmas morning, the pair had come down the stairs together without the prompting Alfred was used to having to give Bruce. Both had been smiling. After an initial moment of shock at the sheer number of packages, Dick had dived into the tree with all the gusto a child ought to. He'd urged Bruce to sit down on the floor beside him, and the billionaire had given in with a full, easy laugh. In that moment, bathed by the multi-colored glow of Christmas lights, the boy who'd been missing for twenty years had briefly reappeared.

The sight had been enough to give Alfred a high for the rest of the day. He allowed more cookies and other sweets to pass his charges' lips than he had in any previous season save that first dreadful one. When a marathon of new movies was proposed to fill the afternoon, he made no remarks about eyestrain or the unhealthiness of hours spent sitting. He even consented to join them at the table for Christmas dinner, breaking an age-old habit of the house simply because Dick, who had given him the one thing he'd yearned for through a full third of his life, had requested it.

When he examined his emotions that night, though, Alfred found something disturbing. Beneath all of the euphoria and relief of the day glistened a faint sheen of jealousy. Desperate to understand how such a thing could be, he stayed up and wracked his brain into the early morning of the twenty-sixth.

In his heart of hearts he was grateful that Bruce had had an easier time guiding his ward through the treacherous waters of tradition than he himself had. Heaven knew he had never wanted the man he'd raised to know how it felt to be an orphan at Christmastime, let alone to then experience being the helpless guardian of an equally heartbroken youth. Then too he wouldn't curse any child with the young Bruce's defensive response, especially not one as good-natured as Master Dick. But why, a voice in the back of his head whispered, why couldn't Bruce have managed a smile every once in a while during that misfired December of long ago? How come the billionaire, who had been born with the world at his feet for the taking, was the one who got to have the easier time of loving?

Two pots of tea failed to lead him to an answer. As he stood waiting for water to heat for a third, he stroked the patinaed porcelain of his mother's old tea set. The motion reminded him of another Christmas, one much further back in his memory than those that he usually relived. It had been right after the house fire that had robbed them of everything they owned, and his twelve-year-old self had been bitter over the secondhand things that their neighbors had donated to help them get back on their feet. The tea pot in his hands now had been one of those used items, and he had disparaged it harshly. There were only two cups, he'd pointed out, ignoring the fact that there were also only two of them to need cups. The pattern was ugly. There was a hairline crack in the lid…

Then his mother had looked up, her mouth pursed, and he had fallen silent. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Alfie," she'd instructed him, "or the gift might be taken away forever."

Was there anything other than for Bruce to keep growing in the direction that Dick was encouraging him to that he truly wanted? he asked himself as the kettle began to sing. The answer was no, of course, and yet he'd stayed awake long past the necessary hour wondering why he couldn't have more. The present was more beautiful than he'd imagined it ever would be, but it wasn't enough; he had to have the past be perfect, too. It was the most ungrateful thing he could have done after the gift he'd been given this morning, the gift he'd waited twenty years for, and he flushed with shame.

He turned off the stovetop and abandoned his hot water. Then, clad in pajamas, dressing gown, and slippers, he ghosted through the darkened halls of Wayne Manor like a less-wealthy version of Ebenezer Scrooge. At the top of the stairs he turned left and, with a quietness borne of decades of practice, opened the first door he came to. A few steps brought him into view of the two figures that lay fast asleep in the same bed; bamboo and willow, curled against one another for mutual protection against the winds that carried insomnia and nightmares to the thresholds of their slumbering minds on a nightly basis.

To change the past would mean changing them as they were in this moment, and Alfred would not have that. If the past was painful, at least it was over. Memories were mere shadows, and even they had improved. What really remained – what mattered – was the future, and so long as he could watch these two growing together well into the years to come there was no need to wish for anything else in the world.


	10. Christmas Under the Big Top

**Author's Note: This piece is set after Pop Haly's death, when Dick has inherited the circus. Happy reading!**

* * *

The inside of the Big Top could be best described with a single word; bright. Every corner was illuminated by spotlights and fairy trails. The metal risers still glinted with near-newness, although their first season of use had given them a few battle scars. Far overhead, the tent fabric's fat red and green stripes stretched upward like Yuletide trails to the stars. Even the sawdust in the ring seemed to glitter, and Bruce wondered if it had been mixed with tinsel for this special occasion.

"What do you think?" an uncharacteristically nervous voice asked from his right. Turning, Bruce found his eldest child chewing on his lip and taking everything in. "Maybe we should have put decorations up in here, huh?"

"Dick..." Reaching out, Bruce grabbed his son's wrist and pulled him down to sit beside him on the bleachers. "Sit here, and look out at that, and imagine you're one of the Foundation kids who are coming tonight. Then tell me if you could possibly be any more excited if there was garland wrapped around the handrails."

A tiny smile appeared, and the younger man's jitters seemed to vanish. "No. I guess they're probably about ready to explode with excitement as it is."

"That's basically what Janice said when I spoke to her a couple of days ago." Janice Yarbrough was the Experiences Coordinator for the Wayne Foundation's Youth Assistance division, and both Bruce and Dick had been in close contact with her over the last four months. While the idea of having Haly's Circus perform a special Christmas Eve show for Gotham's underprivileged youth had been one hundred percent Dick's, the billionaire had taken a special interest in it. He hadn't interfered with the planning – his son was more than capable of coordinating a project like this on his own – but he had discreetly checked in with Janice from time to time.

Dick arched an amused eyebrow. "Been speaking to Janice a lot, have you?"

"Mm. The normal amount, I suppose."

"I had no idea you called her on a weekly basis before this whole project started. Should I start calling her 'mom'? Because she's not that much older than me, so it's going to be kind of awkward."

Dick was joking, but Bruce shook his head and answered seriously. "No. It's not like that."

"I think it's more than you just trying to help in your own way, Bruce."

"...I thought we were talking about _you_ ," Bruce countered. "You and Christmas decorations and tonight. What happened to that?"

"We're still talking about it. But now we're talking about the part where you're so into it that you've been calling Janice and are now sitting inside an empty tent a full hour before the kids arrive." A beat passed. "So what about that, Bruce?"

Bruce sighed. He had come out here specifically so that Dick wouldn't notice his pensive mood, but he should have known better than to think he could duck under the radar on a night like this. His boy was highly attuned to emotions – super-attuned, Clark would argue – at the best of times, and with the circus pitched on the front lawn of Wayne Manor on Christmas Eve that sensitivity was cranked up to maximum. Disappearing from the house, Bruce realized, had been the most obvious thing he could have done.

Still, this wasn't the time to share the worries he'd been wrangling with all week. They were too dark, and he didn't want to taint the eager joy that Dick was radiating. "Let's talk about it later. Not now."

"But tonight?" Dick pressed.

"Tonight," Bruce nodded. "Afterwards, when everyone's gone. We'll talk then. Right here. Okay?"

Dick watched him for a long moment. "Okay. So long as it isn't something that will keep you from enjoying the show."

"It isn't," he lied. "I promise."

Another smile. "Great. Then I'll see you later; I have to go check on some things before the world goes crazy."

Bruce stared after Dick until he disappeared outside. "Sometimes, chum," he murmured when he was alone, "I think the only thing in this world that isn't already crazy is you..."

* * *

Wayne Manor had hosted more fetes and galas than anyone could remember, but it had never before been ground zero for something like this.

Two retired policemen, both recommended by Jim Gordon as trustworthy men with sharp eyes, stood guard at the tall gate that separated the estate's long, curving drive from the highway. Their job was to check the credentials of the many buses and passenger vans ferrying children up from the city and to put the few members of the press who had been granted access to tonight's event through rigorous questioning before allowing them onto the grounds. The newsfolks complained, but not seriously. None of them wanted to lose a rare opportunity to stand in the shadow of Bruce Wayne's family seat.

The approach to the house was soon lined with vehicles of all descriptions. Children poured out of them and swarmed towards the sights and sounds of the circus midway. Their delighted squeals carried in the chilly winter air and echoed back off the mansion, whose glowing windows looked down on the scene like some massive, turreted sentinel. The adult chaperones hustled after them, staring around all the while at the private park they had never dreamed they might someday be invited to.

Dick was covering the circus' expenses for this trip so that everything could be made free for the attendees. Each child received a strip of ten tickets, which they could use for whatever they wanted. Games, food, fortune telling; nothing cost more than a single tag. The smallest visitors thronged the pony rides and the ring toss. Groups of adolescent boys elbowed each other for a chance to knock over heavy old milk bottles with a ball or to race through the House of Mirrors. Their female peers followed the smell of incense to the booths of the Tarot and palm readers, then sat down for henna tattoos and shared what they'd learned about their futures. Everyone, regardless of age or gender, stood in line to choose between candied apples, peanuts, cotton candy, and popcorn.

And then, just before seven o'clock, the crowds outside began to thin as everyone trickled into the Big Top. Bruce returned from stretching his legs and checking the back side of the house – he knew how sneaky the reporters that had been invited could be, and didn't want them snooping around any more than necessary – just in time to catch Tim and Damian at a side entrance. "Did Dick tell you if we're supposed to sit somewhere in particular?" Tim asked.

"No. But follow me; I know a spot." Bruce led them a short distance away, then climbed halfway into the stands and sat down in the same place he'd been when he'd spoken to Dick earlier in the evening.

Damian frowned. "Why here? I don't want to be right in the middle of everything. We're going to be surrounded by kids."

"It's a decent enough view," Tim shrugged as he took a seat beside Bruce. "And you're going to be surrounded by children no matter where you sit."

"…Whatever." With that, the pre-teen turned away.

"Where are you going?" Bruce called him back.

"To find Grayson."

"He's busy. Sit down."

"He said I could tag along with him tonight if I wanted!"

Bruce hesitated. He wouldn't put it past Dick to have said exactly that to his youngest brother, but it also wasn't difficult to believe that Damian would make something up in order to escape sitting with the rest of the family. "…Go ahead, then. But I'll be checking with Dick after the show to make sure he really offered."

"Fine. He'll back me up." And with that, Damian stomped off.

"What a freaking sourpuss," Tim muttered. "I don't know how he's not having fun tonight. This is amazing. I feel like I'm four years old again."

Bruce flinched. He'd forgotten that the last time he'd been inside a circus tent not only Dick but a very young Tim had been present. Both had been unknown to him at the time, but that didn't matter. "Dick did a good job putting this together," he said in an attempt to dissemble his reaction.

"He did." Neither spoke for a second. "Nice new bleachers."

"Dick bought them at the beginning of the season. The tent's new, too, just for tonight."

"I know. He told me. I'm surprised he didn't buy a bigger one, though, or more seats for that matter. I think they're in the exact same configuration they were the last time I went to a Haly's show. Funny, huh?"

"Yeah. Funny."

"That makes it easy to pick a seat, at least. You know…if you wanted to sit where you'd sat before."

Bruce recognized Tim's hinting tactic as one that Dick used regularly. "If you're trying to get at something, Tim, make it quick," he advised. "We're still relatively alone right now, but that won't last."

"You're sitting where you sat that night, aren't you? The night his parents died."

The billionaire's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "…Did Dick say something to you?"

"He asked me to keep an eye on you, that's all. What clued me in is where you chose to sit just now. Damian didn't want to be in the middle of the crowd, and normally you wouldn't want to be, either. The only thing I could think was that you went incognito that night, and sat in a spot like this one so you could blend in and not get spotted by the paparazzi. Now…now this spot has significance for you. This is where you watched it happen. This is where you watched them...watched them die. Am I right?"

"…You're not wrong."

"You know tonight won't be like that, right?"

Bruce turned and studied his third son's face. "What do you mean?" A spear of worry drove through his stomach. "…Tim, if Dick is planning something – some unannounced trapeze act or something like that – I need you to tell me right now." If his eldest was going up on the wires tonight, he couldn't watch from here. The stress would make his heart explode.

"He's not planning anything, at least not that I'm aware of. I'm just saying that this is totally different than before. That's all. All of the equipment's been locked up behind the gate for days, and I saw Dick check everything about eighteen times besides. So relax; no one's going to die tonight."

No one was supposed to have died on that warm spring night fifteen years earlier, either, but that hadn't prevented deaths from occurring. Still, Tim's assurances calmed the billionaire a little. Maybe it was because Dick hadn't mentioned being in the air tonight; maybe it was because what Tim had said was perfectly logical. "…You're right," he admitted slowly.

"So can we just enjoy the show instead of sitting here with our hands clenched and waiting for something to go wrong, then?"

Bruce looked down at the white-knuckled fists he'd made without realizing it. "Shit." Forcing his fingers open, he shook his hands out. "Okay, Tim. You win. I'll stop thinking that tonight is going to be a repeat of the last time I sat in this seat."

"Do you want to move? There's still time. We could try to find Alfred; I know he's around here somewhere."

There were indeed a few spots left elsewhere in the stands, and the house lights hadn't gone down yet. It felt wrong to think about switching seats, though. The last time he'd sat where he was now the show had been horribly interrupted; he owed it to himself to finally finish the performance he'd tried to watch so long ago. "No. We'll stay here. It's fine."

And it _was_ fine. For an instant after the interior of the Big Top dimmed, the noise level also fell. Then an entrance jingle was played, and the crowd roared back to life. A trio of spotlights zeroed in on the spangle-suited and top-hatted figure striding into the middle of the ring. Bruce couldn't help but smirk as he recognized the announcer as Dick.

"…Lllllladies and gentlemen," his son began with a grin so broad that even the Joker would have been impressed, "boys and girls, welcome to this very special Christmas Eve performance of Haly's Circus." There was no possible way he could have seen into the audience, but his eyes fixed themselves to Bruce's anyway. "I can't even begin to tell you how glad I am to see you here tonight."

Somehow, that did it. The coil of fear that not even Tim's most logical argument or Bruce's own determination could unwind collapsed into an unthreatening heap on the floor of his stomach. As soon as his tension had evaporated, Dick's gaze skipped away from him to roam the masses again. "But you all didn't come here to hear me be sentimental, did you?"

"No!" screamed the children.

"Of course you didn't! So, without further ado, I give you my personal favorite thing about the circus; the elephants!"

Dick returned to the twilit sidelines under a rain of cheers. Bruce peered after him and saw, just barely, as Damian reached out to take his hat. "…Was that _Damian_ , being _helpful_?" Tim asked beside him.

"It was," Bruce answered.

"Huh. I guess funny things really do happen at the circus."

"Apparently. But no more talking," he said as a bulky gray silhouette started forward into the light. "…Let's just enjoy your brother's show." Now, Bruce thought, maybe he really could.

* * *

The elephants paraded by in their gold- and silver-fringed blankets and headpieces, their gaily clad passengers tossing candy by the handful into the delighted crowd. After a few tricks the circus' three pachyderms stood in a line at one end of the ring. Dick re-emerged wielding a conductor's baton and stood before them. "Now as I said before," he remarked, "the elephants are my favorite. Part of the reason I like them is that they're such generous creatures. They're so generous, in fact, that they'd like to sing a song for you. But they need your help. Do you guys think you can help them sing a Christmas song?"

"Yeah!" shrieked the children.

"Are you ready to start?"

"YEAH!"

"Elephants, are you ready?" He waved his baton at them, and they raised their trunks as one. "Okay, Pancho, hit it!"

An accordion-bearing roustabout ran forward into the light and began to play the strangest version of 'Jingle Bells' Bruce had ever heard. The audience recognized it anyway, and began to sing. Every time the song reached a 'hey!' the elephant trio trumpeted. Squeals of delight rang out from all sides of the tent, and when the music ended so many feet pounded on the risers that the noise might well have been audible in the next county. Only one act had performed, and the kids were already likely to be hoarse come morning; the show was an undeniable hit.

The quality didn't falter as time went on. Acrobats dressed like candy canes completed complex floor routines, climbed into towering pyramids, and threw one another high into the air. Ponies skipped and shuffled in synchronized patterns while riders performed dangerous feats of balance on their backs. There were fire-breathers, sword-swallowers, and hula-hoopers who kept five, six, seven rings going at once. It was all just as Bruce remembered it being, only better because Dick was directing the action with such feverish fanfare that he seemed almost insane.

The last act was the aerial show. This was the part Bruce had been dreading the most, and it took all of his strength to keep the coil of fear Dick had banished from re-tightening itself in his gut. The fact that the quartet of performers were cousins rather than parents and children helped, as did the fact that they lacked the preternatural fluidity that the Flying Graysons had possessed. Other than that mild criticism the only thought that went through his head was the grateful reflection that if something _did_ happen now at least it wasn't his son who would fall.

And then it was over. The performers came out for a final wave, then ghosted back to their trailers at the edge of the woods to change and wipe off their makeup. The bleachers emptied out more slowly, with children having to be cajoled into leaving by their caretakers. Eventually Tim stood up, too. "I'm going to head inside. Are you coming?"

"No. I'll see you in the house in a little bit."

Tim gave him a quizzical look, but just shrugged rather than inquiring further. "Okay. See you later."

Five minutes later, when Bruce was the only person left in the Big Top, a side door opened. Dick walked across the ruffled sawdust, dressed no more in his sparkly suit but instead in jeans and a light jacket. He vaulted the barricade between the floor and the stands, then climbed up to sit at the billionaire's side. "…Hey."

"Hey, chum." Comfortable quiet spun out between them. "That was a damned good show. I should have known you'd be a natural ringmaster."

"Yeah…Alfred said the same thing. Timmy, too. It was fun. A _lot_ of fun, actually. That's a job I could get used to."

"So what are you telling me? You're running away to re-join the circus?"

"Heh. No. We've got enough of a circus to take care of right here in Gotham."

"We do. I can't argue with that. Now if only we could get rid of the clown..."

Dick shivered. "Don't bring him up. Not tonight. I keep them out of Haly's for a reason. It's not that they're bad folks, clowns, but there're just too many nasty connotations for me."

"Understood." Bruce had been glad that none had appeared in the show, and it didn't surprise him to learn that their exclusion had been a conscious choice.

"I saw Tim inside. He, ah...he said you thought I might try and fly tonight."

"It crossed my mind." He paused. "Thank you for keeping your feet on the ground."

"I was tempted, Bruce. I'll admit, I was tempted. And the Rizzinis would have let me join them, too. But it wouldn't have been safe."

Bruce blinked hard as a remembered _snap_ sounded in the back of his mind. "What?"

"Not like that," Dick promised. "No, believe me, I checked those wires about a hundred times over the last couple of days. I meant security-wise. I know Tim's a rare breed of observant, but that doesn't mean that someone else here tonight couldn't put what they saw me doing and a news clip of…other things…together and come to the same conclusion as he did. Besides, I…I knew you'd freak. I knew you'd be scared if you saw me performing here again, like that. And I didn't want to hurt you. It was enough to be back in the ring at all; I didn't need to be in the air, too."

"I think it would have about killed me if you'd gone up there tonight, Dick. I know it's ridiculous, but that's how it is. And if something had gone wrong-" He had to stop. For all that it hadn't happened, the picture was too much. In that instant all he could see were the broken bodies of John and Mary Grayson, and he realized as he never had before how closely Dick resembled his biological father. If those wide, staring eyes were ever his, and if that thin line of death-dark blood ever ran from between his lips... His hand groped over blindly and covered his son's. "Just…no. Please."

"…Bruce? It's okay."

He took a deep breath. "It is now, chum. Now that it's over and you're safe…now it's okay."

"Is that why you sat in the same seat as before?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you sat here last time you were at Haly's, and I lived despite what happened. I was just wondering if you thought sitting in the same seat would yield the same result if something else went wrong tonight."

Bruce hadn't even considered that his choice of seat could have been tied to some subconscious superstition. He didn't like the idea of submitting to such an unscientific concept, but he couldn't deny that it might have been an unknown factor in his decision. "If I did think that, I didn't know it."

"Mm. No surprise, coming from you, but I figured I'd ask. So…what was it, then? Why here?"

He was at a loss for words until the reason he hadn't wanted to move seats on Tim's suggestion rose back into his mind. "I needed to finish it, Dick," he explained. "All week I've been thinking about tonight. Dreading it, in a way. There's a reason I never took you to a circus when you were younger, and it wasn't because I thought I was sparing your feelings. Having you with me in a place where you could so easily have died…I didn't think I could do it. So I avoided it until I couldn't avoid it anymore."

"But you let us have it here. You didn't have to do that if it bothered you so much."

"When have I ever been able to say no to you?"

"Point taken. But I wish you'd told me, Bruce. You didn't have to come. If I'd known-"

"No," Bruce cut him off. "It's good. I'm glad I came, now. I'm glad I've proven to myself that a circus doesn't always end in murder. And I'm glad I saw you standing in that ring and running the show." His earlier observation about the brightness of the tent came back to him. Long ago he had taken the brightest thing in Haly's circus away from it; tonight that brightness had been restored, and it had touched every facet of the show. "I'll never forget the sight of you in that top hat, Dick, and I'll never regret staying to see it, either, no matter how hard it might have been at moments."

Dick leaned into him briefly, then made a thoughtful noise. "Hmm…"

"Mm?"

"Well, I was just thinking…we never went to the movies when I was a kid, either."

Bruce stiffened. "No. We didn't."

"...You're not ready for that one yet, huh?"

"No." He'd never be ready for that. Tonight had been difficult because someone he loved had once nearly died here; a movie would be impossible because two people he loved _had_ died there.

"That's okay. I don't mind. At least I got you to go to the circus again." Dick's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed. "So you're better now?"

He was. "Yeah. I am."

"Then can I maybe convince you to stop sitting in this drafty tent by yourself and come watch a movie with the rest of us? In the den," Dick added. "No theaters. I promise."

Bruce felt a tiny smile push onto his lips. "I don't think any movie can compare with what I just saw in this 'drafty tent,' but I'm willing to find out." He pulled Dick close for another moment, then released him and stood up. "Lead the way, chum. Tonight's your show, not mine, and I'm ready to see where it leads next."


	11. Christmas Eve Confessional Redux

**Author's Note: Reader Titch360 requested a follow-up to last year's story, 'Christmas Eve Confessional,' but with Bruce talking about all four of the boys. I thought it was a fabulous idea, so here you have it. Please note that this story is set after Bruce has returned from being 'dead.'**

 **Tomorrow's story will be from Red Hood's POV, for all you Jason-lovers out there.**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

Late on Christmas Eve, when everyone else in the house was already abed, Bruce Wayne did as he'd done on this night almost without fail for the past thirty-seven years. The key he carried slipped easily into the old lock of a door some distance from the main wing of the house, and he passed into the room beyond. In a moment he had turned on the pair of lamps that flanked a sofa, moving confidently through the dark as if he performed this ritual every day. That done, he sat down and stared up at the painting hung over the empty fireplace. Then he did something he had never done before at the beginning of one of his annual trips to this forgotten sitting room; he laughed.

It was only a chuckle, but even that was extraordinary in this setting. His Christmas visits to the permanently fixed visages of his parents were always sober things, laden with regret, anger, and tears. This year, though, he couldn't stop his happiness from coming forth right off the bat. A hint of guilt stole across his face, but he banished it quickly. Mother and Father wouldn't mind if he laughed. In fact, if they'd been capable of minding anything they probably would have preferred laughter to the usual upset.

"…I had no idea," Bruce began to speak when his mirthful moment had passed, "that having four boys in the house on Christmas could be so chaotic. Yes," he smiled softly, "you heard me right. _Four_ boys. They're all here. For the first time ever they're…they're all here.

"Don't ask me how it came about. It's a very long, convoluted story, and to be honest I don't even know what the catalyst was on Jason's side. Maybe something happened to make him realize that he never stopped being my son; maybe it's something to do with the fact that I was 'dead' for a while, too; maybe he just finally matured enough to admit to himself that he wanted to come home. I haven't pushed too hard for specifics because I'm afraid of driving him away. As much as I want to know, I hold myself back. So long as he's willing to come here from time to time and be part of the family again, I can live with the mystery."

That was his big news for the year, but there was plenty more to share. Leaning back and making himself comfortable, he went on. "Dick's been like a puppy all week. He follows me around, then he follows Jason around, then Tim...it's like he can't quite believe that we're all really here. I think one of us would have told him off by now if he was anyone other than himself. Jason tried yesterday, but Dick looked so excited just to be talking to him that whatever snark he was about to offload died on his lips. They ended up helping Alfred wrap Christmas presents together. It was…it was like old times. It was like old times, and it was so beautiful that it hurt.

"Tim's more dubious about Jason being home, for obvious reasons. He's been making an effort, though, which I appreciate. I'm not going to exaggerate and say it's going well, but at least they haven't come to blows yet. Let's hope that tomorrow isn't the day for that."

He paused, thinking hard. "I don't know whose side Damian would come down on if it came to a fight. You know from years past that he and Tim aren't exactly the best of friends, and Damian's smart enough to have realized that Dick doesn't hold one of them over the other in his heart. If there was a preference on Dick's end I'm confident that Damian would stick with that person, but like it is…well. I guess we've found a drawback to Dick loving all of his brothers equally, haven't we?

"…Maybe it would work, though. One of the best things that came out of my being gone is the relationship Dick and Damian have now. Dick would have loved Damian no matter what – you know Dick – but there's a respect that Damian shows back that he doesn't evince for anyone else. Not knowing who Dick would prefer to win in a Jason versus Tim showdown, or knowing that he'd rather they didn't fight at all, might just be enough to keep Damian from jumping into the fray."

Pursing his lips, he swung his feet up onto the couch and considered the issue further. "But I still don't know. As much as Damian wants to please Dick, he's stubborn about having his own opinion. Despite everything Tim's done in the year since I came back and he returned, too, I know Damian still holds his absence against him. That factor on top of the basic incompatibility of personalities that's always been between them…it's a lot for a thirteen year old to look past. And I think he's a little impressed that Jason went his own way in life, too, the same way he was impressed when he heard about how Dick defied me to quit school and become a cop. There's a huge difference in magnitude between those two cases, of course, but the basic point is the same. They declared their independence and became their own men.

"That's not to say that Tim isn't his own man. It's just that Tim is the most like me out of all of them in his way of thinking. We've had disagreements, naturally, but we've never come to a moment of such differing opinion that he felt the need to leave and be on his own for a while. I suppose the time while I was gone could be counted as an exception, but that was between him and Dick. And frankly, I think Tim would have stayed and developed his own alter-ego here if he hadn't been so hurt by the choice of Damian as Robin. That's what Dick says, at least, and if anyone's likely to have a good bead on someone else's emotions it's Dick."

A frown caused his brow to furrow. "Clark has a theory about that." He heard the sneer in his voice, but he didn't bother to try and lessen it as he went on. "He keeps hinting that Dick's ability to read how people are feeling and turn their mood into what he wants it to be is a superpower. Can you believe that shit? I think I would have noticed if my own child had a superpower. I don't understand why it can't be enough for Clark that Dick's just a sensitive human being. There are plenty of others with superpowers on this planet already, so I see no reason for him to try and poach my son into that group.

"I won't lie and say I'm not proud that he's so skilled at something that people who _do_ have superpowers think he does, too. I am proud. But I feel like it's unnecessary to slap that label on him. That's a heavy burden to carry, having superpowers, and I don't want anything else falling on his shoulders. He's got enough to deal with as it is.

"But he is inexplicably clever about emotions sometimes. Take today as an example. It's been cold the last week or so, too cold to be outside much. We've even cut a few patrols short because of it. Everyone had cabin fever, and with Jason here and all the tension that's come along with that everything was on even more of a knife's edge than it already would have been. So Dick drove into town without telling anyone what he was doing and bought all of the foam spheres he could find. He must have cleaned out half a dozen craft stores to get as many as he did. Then he came back, grinned that ridiculous, undeniable grin of his, and told us we were having a snowball fight.

"A snowball fight! We all thought he was crazy until he explained that we weren't going outside to do it. We went down to the ballroom instead, and put a few tables on their sides to act as cover. Other than those tables and the columns under the second floor balcony there was nowhere to hide. It was a slaughterhouse in there once we started, even with those flimsy foam missiles. You couldn't throw them far because they were so light, so you had to try and sneak up on whoever you were targeting. I couldn't tell you how many five minute alliances were made and broken and made again. The boys were even working together – all together, all four of them – at a few points. I know because I got hit about a hundred times every time they ganged up on me."

Another laugh rose from his throat. "Everything was looser after that, the whole rest of the day. And every time I looked at them, at any one of them, all I felt was joy. They were all here, within arm's reach, and it was just…perfect. I still can't believe it. I still can't believe that in a few hours I'm going to walk downstairs and see _all four_ of them sitting around the tree. It's impossible, but it's real. And even if a couple of them are punching each other," he smirked, "I can't imagine being anything but grateful that we're all in the same room as civilians."

There was more he could have said after that, but it would have just been a repetition of the same basic sentiments he'd already expressed. Instead of speaking he simply sat, content to linger in the dusk and absorb the silence. It was only when he felt his eyelids beginning to succumb to gravity that he finally rose to his feet. Standing in front of the portrait that had soothed him on so many Christmas Eves past, he smiled.

"I wish you two were here to see them. I still wish that every day. I wish you could be as proud of them as I am. I wish…I wish you'd had a chance to love them. And I wish they'd had a chance to love you. But it is what it is, and this year…this year what it is is pretty damn good. So thank you. Not for dying," he clarified, "but for giving me life. You aren't here to take pride in them and love them, but I am. And I promise, I'm doing my best to give them what they deserve."

That was all he had. After a final look into each of his parents' eyes – his mother's, deeply intelligent but shining with kindness; his father's, firm and practical but a little bit harried – he turned away and shut off the lights. At the door he stopped and glanced back. "Merry Christmas," he whispered into the dark. "…It's going to be the best one yet."


	12. Good Things

"You're a hard man to find these days."

Jason scowled beneath his disguise. "Maybe that's because I don't want to be found." He'd been purposefully avoiding Nightwing for days, going so far as to deviate from his usual patrol route when he saw the other man sitting just outside his territory in wait. There was no question in his mind that Dick knew he'd been hiding, but it didn't surprise him that he'd persevered in his chase anyway. It wasn't in Nightwing's nature to give up, and that went double when his little brothers were involved.

That was the problem, though. Jason hadn't felt like part of the family for years, and after all the head-butting he'd done with Batman and the other Robins he couldn't fathom why Dick continued to make an effort with him. For some reason, despite everything, Nightwing still acted like the sibling Jason had never had.

"I don't believe that," the older vigilante said now. "If that was true, you wouldn't have let me catch up tonight."

"Maybe I just want you to get your usual Christmas rhetoric out of the way so I can go back to my life."

"Nah," Nightwing grinned. "I know you. You wouldn't waste your time letting me near if you knew what I was going to say and didn't want to hear it."

Goddamn. He was right, and Jason couldn't bring himself to argue. The reason he had been dodging this meeting was that he _did_ know what Dick had come here to say, and a part of him _did_ want to hear it. As much as he hated that fact, he knew it to be true. Avoiding Nightwing until the other man finally gave up, or better yet attacking him for being in his territory, would sever his final tenuous link with Bruce and Alfred and everything that had been good about his old life. It would be a clean break then, and he would have no reason to care what effect his actions might have on his future options as regarded the Batclan.

That was what he wanted, but he couldn't muster the strength to land the final blow. He blamed Dick. If that loving son of a bitch had been just a little less kind, a little less supportive, or a little less friendly when Jason had still been a street kid trying to get used to living in a rich man's world, things wouldn't be so difficult now. He could have burned the last bridge to his past long ago. He could be free.

But it _was_ Dick, and that meant that he was helpless. He would stop, and he would listen despite making every effort to appear bored, and he would let that last possible route home stand for another year. "You were dogging my footsteps," Red Hood accused in an effort to hide the truth. "It was holding me back, and I figured the easiest way to get you to stop was to just let you give your little speech. So talk already."

"Ah! If you're feeling restrained, then you'll like what I brought you." Nightwing pulled a flask from one of his many secret pockets and shook it invitingly. "This stuff doesn't cause inhibitions, it makes them go away."

"...What is it?" Red Hood asked, curious in spite of himself. Dick always had something for him at this time of year, but never before had the gift been edible.

"Agent A's finest egg nog. You're finally old enough for the good stuff, so I thought we'd share."

"We're standing on a rooftop, heavily armed and in disguises, but you're worried about obeying the drinking age law?"

"What can I say? Sticking to the rules is a hard habit to break." The flask was extended towards Jason. "...You can have the first swig, if you want."

How many times as a teen had he watched enviously as the guests at one of Bruce's many Christmas season events put away glass after glass of this magic beverage? He'd always been tempted to sneak a little, but the potential loss of Robin privileges for weeks if he was caught had been enough to temper his judgment. Back then he'd had no reason to believe that he wouldn't turn twenty-one at Wayne Manor and be invited to join in the adult fun at the next party. This would hardly be his first drink ever, but it would be the first taste he'd ever had of Alfred's long-coveted Christmas brew.

He stepped forward to take the container from Nightwing's hand, but he dissembled as he did so. "How do I know you didn't put anything in it?"

A flicker of hurt ran through Dick's smile. He recovered quickly, though, and replied with a joke. "I wouldn't want to ruin the flavor. That would be like putting sauce on one of Agent A's steaks. Sacrilege."

"...Mm." Red Hood hesitated for a moment, then sipped. Thick, almost cloying sweetness assaulted his tastebuds. There was a nutty edge to the beverage that stopped it just short of being intolerable. Then came the burn as his tongue found the alcohol in the mixture. "That's – _ahem_ – not too awful."

"Strong, I know. Kind of a kick in the face at first, but by the time we run out you won't notice that part any more." Taking the flask back, Nightwing raised it in a toast. "...Cheers, little brother," he said, and drank.

Jason thought he'd hand the eggnog over again after that – he'd said he wanted to share it, after all – but instead he gestured towards a low, wide utility block in the middle of the roof. "Let's sit down, huh? Might as well be comfortable."

Objecting might mean no more eggnog, and Red Hood wasn't done with it yet. His initial taste had brought back the smell that wafted out of the kitchen when Alfred made each soiree's batch, and on the heels of that memory had come a dozen more. Gingerbread, sugar cookies, pot roast, hot chocolate...he labored not to think about such things during the holidays, but tonight he couldn't avoid it. What had he been thinking when he'd agreed to this? He wanted to bury the past, yet here he was digging it up in all of its spice- and sugar-scented glory.

Despite his self-chastisement, he followed Nightwing to their impromptu bench and sat down. The skyscrapers of downtown were behind them, and the edge of the roof was far enough away that it blocked everything save the faintly outlined hills of the north from their view. A few lights were visible on those distant rises, but not so many that one could easily tell the earth from the Milky Way spread out above it. They were lucky, Jason thought as his second shot rolled down his throat, that the glow of the city wasn't blocking out the stars. Space had always been visible from the manor on clear nights, but it was a rare sight in the heart of Gotham proper.

Dick was looking upward, too, and neither spoke as they passed the flask back and forth. A pleasant tingling spread through Red Hood's body as the container steadily grew lighter. Maybe it wasn't so bad to keep just _one_ connection with his old life open, he mused tipsily. Lots of people had big brothers; who cared if he saw his once or twice a year? He wasn't helping the guy out or anything. They were just sharing a drink at Christmastime, like two perfectly normal people. It was nobody's business but his.

"...Well, I think that's that," Nightwing sighed eventually. "We drained it."

"That-" Jason broke off. He'd been about to say 'that sucks,' and not only because he had enjoyed the flavor of the stuff Dick had brought with him. "...That means it's time for you to go," he finished instead. "You did what you came to do."

"Partly. I really came to say Merry Christmas, though." The flask disappeared back into its pocket. "You know...there's always eggnog in the fridge this time of the year. It's pretty great to come home after a long night of patrol, pop your feet up in front of the fire, and put a glass or two away before bed. I'm just saying, if you were ever interested in checking that out...well, I'm pretty sure we could scare you up a chair and a cup."

Red Hood wished that proposal didn't sound so tempting. If he could have been guaranteed that it would only be Dick and Alfred in the house with him he might have thought seriously about saying yes. But that was impossible, so he shook his head and growled a negative answer instead. "Don't be an idiot, Nightwing. You'll just piss me off."

Nightwing shrugged. "Your choice, Hood. But the offer stands in case you ever change your mind." A beat passed. "I'll bring you some more next year, if you want. And if you don't spend the first week of my attempts trying to dodge me, I might be able to come twice before Christmas hits and Alfred stops making fresh batches."

Something twisted in Jason's chest. Turning his face away so that he couldn't see the hopeful uptick marking the corners of the other man's mouth, he tried to make his voice sound disdainful. "You can come once, and maybe I'll let you in."

"I'll take what I can get, little brother." A hand clasped his shoulder, and Red Hood didn't even try to shake it off. "...See you soon, I hope. Merry Christmas."

Dick left then, but Jason remained. The lingering flavor of eggnog in his mouth slowly faded away, leaving bitterness in its place. Only when the eastern sky began to lighten and there was nothing but memories left on his tongue did he stand up. As he swung away from the desolate rooftop that had played host to the night's meeting, a single thought echoed in his head:

Why, _why_ did the good things in his life never last?


	13. Under the Stars

**Author's Note: It's a young Dick day! We're also halfway through this year's series, if you can believe that. I hope you've all been enjoying our little peeks into the Batfamily's holidays.**

 **See you tomorrow, and happy reading!**

* * *

Dick was pouting, and that was unacceptable. "What's going on, chum?" Bruce asked from across the breakfast table.

The boy stopped poking morosely at his eggs and looked up. "Huh?"

"I said, what's going on? You're pouting." The billionaire couldn't imagine what might have upset his usually sunny child. School was out for another two weeks, it would be Christmas in a matter of days, and he had spent all of yesterday evening having fun in the Mount Justice lounge with Kid Flash. Dick might have been thinking about his parents, Bruce supposed, but pouting wasn't his normal way of reacting to bittersweet memories. There was simply no reason for the disappointed look on his face.

"Oh...I didn't know." Dick tucked his lower lip back in, but there was still a forlorn aura about him. "Sorry."

"Dick. C'mon, kiddo, I know you're not happy about something."

The pink strip of flesh that had been pooching out before now retreated until it was pinched between Dick's teeth. "It's...it's not anything you can fix, Bruce. It's okay."

"The list of problems I can't do something about is a pretty short one. Why don't you tell me what it is that you're wanting so I can at least determine how impossible it is for myself?"

"Well..." Dick hesitated. "I love it here," he burst out after a moment. "I really do. It's just...I miss going outside at Christmas. That's all. But I know you can't change the weather, so it's okay."

"I don't understand, Dicky. You spent two hours outside on Friday building a snow fort." He knew that to be a fact because the ten-year-old had dragged him outside to admire it as soon as he got home from the office. "We can go out today if you want, it just can't be for very long because of the cold." Clear skies had pushed the temperature below the zero mark the night before, leaving Bruce grateful that he'd had a JLA meeting to attend. The cold didn't bother him, but he didn't want to risk Robin catching a chill or, worse still, loosing his grip on his grappling gun mid-swing due to stiff fingers.

"I know I did, and I know we could, but it's not the same. It doesn't get cold like this where we used to winter in Florida. I used to be able to just run outside and play without putting on eight hundred billion pounds of clothes. Sometimes we'd even go camping."

His voice became reflective. "We did that for Christmas once. We took a car battery and some lights with us, and we found this clearing with bushes around it. Dad and I put the lights in the bushes and hooked them up to the battery so they'd work, and mom set up everything else. We laid out in the open and looked up at the stars, and in the morning we opened our presents without getting out of bed. That was neat. I liked that." A sigh escaped him. "But you can't do that here. Not in the winter."

Alfred had come in to check on them just as Dick was launching into his story, and now he spoke. "Why on earth not, Master Dick? People _do_ camp in winter in more northerly climes than Florida. It simply requires a bit of preparation and much warmer gear."

Dick's eyes grew wide. "Really? People camp in the snow for fun? That sounds amazing!"

Bruce cleared his throat before the conversation could get out of control. "It was five below earlier, chum. We're not camping outside for Christmas at those temperatures." Even if it had been warmer we would have found some way to put his foot down. Camping out was something he did only when absolutely necessary. He could see himself giving in once or twice a summer if Dick requested a night of sleeping out, but the pleasure in that would come from making his son happy, not from the activity himself. Christmas was a time for fireplaces, large meals, and other creature comforts, not cold, frosty canvas, and sleeping with gloves on.

"I'm afraid Master Wayne's ruling makes sense, young sir," Alfred backed him up before Dick could object. "It is rather cold, and there's a wind besides. It would be quite difficult to fit all of your presents into a tent with you, as well, and some of them might be damaged by exposure to the elements. However," the butler tacked on as the boy's pout began to resurface, "we may be able to reach a compromise. Would you permit me to see if I can come up with something that will scratch your camping itch tonight?"

"...Not on Christmas?"

"While the tree you chose this year is lovely, Master Dick, it is unfortunately fifteen feet tall and fully decorated. I'd rather not try to wheel it about the house, and my plans for your camp-out do not involve the sitting room."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"Would you like me to work on something for you, then?"

Dick turned to Bruce. "You'll camp with me, right? If Alfred figures out a way for us to camp inside but feel like we're outside?"

Sleeping on the floor wasn't the way the billionaire had planned to spend his Sunday night, but if doing so erased that frown from his son's lips then he would grin and bear it. "Sure," he agreed.

"Yay!" Dick leaped from his chair and hustled around the table. His arms went around Alfred first, then Bruce. "This is going to be so much fun!"

Bruce looked helplessly down at the joyful smile his boy had put on. Was there any privation he wouldn't go through, he wondered, if he knew that this look of utter happiness would be his reward? He doubted it. Furthermore, he suspected that in a few years time – come a warmer-than-usual winter, perhaps – Dick would press him to winter camp for real. Somehow he knew that when that happened it would be more impossible than ever to deny his request.

"Don't worry, sir," Alfred assured him as if he'd read his thoughts. "They make superb ground pads nowadays. Whether you're sleeping under a roof or without one in years to come, I shall endeavor to make the experience as comfortable as possible."

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce breathed with relief. "I get the feeling I'm going to need all the help with that I can get..."

* * *

They were together in the cave when Alfred came to fetch them early that evening. "Sirs? Everything is ready for you."

Bruce frowned. "What about dinner?"

"I've built that into the camping, Master Wayne. I trust you don't mind."

He did mind, as a matter of fact. Sleeping on the floor was bad enough; he had no interest in eating on it as well. Dick's excited squeal punctured his annoyance before he could express it, however. "We get to have a camp dinner? That's awesome!" He skipped past Bruce and up to the butler. "Where are we camping, Alfred? Will it really feel like we're outside?"

"I daresay it will, young sir, but why don't you take Master Wayne up to the east solarium and see for yourself?"

"The solarium? Oh, yeah! I forgot about that place. That's perfect!" Dick scampered back to Bruce's side, took up his hand, and began to pull him towards the stairs. "C'mon, Bruce! Let's go see!"

Once he'd been tugged through the house and into the sunroom Bruce found that he had to agree with Dick's assessment. The glass walls and roof of the space looked out on the side lawn, where the snow lay undisturbed save for a single trail Dick had cut in an attempt to roll a snowman's base. Beyond that rose the trees, frosted and glistening in the low light that reached them from the house. The sky overhead was flat black thanks to the clouds that had rolled in that afternoon, but the starless state of the heavens didn't make the illusion of being outside any less convincing.

The solarium wasn't tied into the manor's central heating, but Bruce found that there was no need to shiver. A blazing fire in the hearth set into one corner of the room had taken the chill out of the air and raised the temperature into the high fifties. The flames were the only light source except for the small battery-powered lantern that had been left running on top of a cooler. Flanking the cooler was a pair of deck chairs that he recognized as usual denizens of this part of the house. Tonight they had been draped in thick wool throws that lent them a wintry air and promised to keep any sitter warm.

Behind the chairs was the greatest sight that had yet met Bruce's eyes tonight. Alfred had found a queen-sized air mattress somewhere and stacked it high with quilts and knitted throws. The pile had been topped off with a sleek, shining square of mink fur that was so broad its edges trailed off of the mattress and onto the cool flagstone floor. For the first time since the idea of winter camping had come up Bruce thought he might get a good night's sleep after all.

Dick was beside himself with excitement. "We can see outside! And look at the fire! Is that going to go all night? And the bed! Holy blankets! Wait...is that one made out of real fur?"

"It is," Alfred verified, "but I assure you that the animals have been dead for a very long time."

"Well...okay. I guess there's no point in complaining about them being put in a blanket if they died a long time ago." He tilted his head back and peered up through the glass ceiling, which had been scraped clean of its snow cover. "Too bad it's cloudy. It would be nice to see the stars. But this is still super amazing, Alfred. Thank you."

"You're very welcome, young sir. But I wouldn't give up on the stars just yet."

Bruce arched an eyebrow. "The forecast earlier said clouds through the twenty-fifth."

"It did, Master Wayne, but to our good fortune we live in the twenty-first century." With that enigmatic statement, Alfred turned to Dick. "I have an early Christmas present for you, Master Dick. Would you care to open it?"

Dick's eyes grew wide. "Is that allowed?"

"Not usually, but I think in this case we can make an exception. Is that all right with you, Master Wayne?"

"I don't see why not," Bruce shrugged. It wasn't as if there weren't dozens of other gifts waiting to be opened by the boy come Christmas Day.

"If you will both take a seat, then, I'll fetch it."

They settled back into their winterized chairs before the fire as Alfred disappeared back into the house. Dick crossed his legs beneath himself, then looked over at Bruce. "This is great," he said, and grinned so wide that the gap where he'd recently lost a bicuspid was visible. "I can't wait to see what my present is. And what we're having for dinner, too. What do you think it is?"

"Your present, or dinner?"

"Both."

"I have no idea what your present is." He couldn't recall everything he'd bought Dick for the upcoming holiday, but the things he did remember had nothing to do with camping. "As for dinner...honestly, chum, that's a mystery too. I'm confident that it isn't hot dogs, but I don't know what else Alfred might consider camp food."

"Hmm...well, it will be good, whatever it is. Alfred's food is always good."

"True."

Neither spoke again until Alfred returned bearing a medium-sized box. The dark blue paper covering it was embossed with small silver stars that seemed to twinkle in the shifting firelight. "Go on," the butler encouraged as he passed the present into Dick's eager hands. "Open it up."

"...Alfred, do I know what this is?" Bruce inquired.

"No, sir. This is something I had picked up myself for the young master. I wouldn't have volunteered one of your gifts for an early opening without speaking to you about it first."

"Oh, wow!" Dick exclaimed as he tore the paper away. "Bruce, look! It puts the constellations on your ceiling! This is so cool, Alfred!"

It was neat, Bruce had to admit, and it fit perfectly with this evening's activities. "That was a good idea," he complimented. "And if we lower the shades on the ceiling panels we'll be able to see a good portion of the stars in here."

"That was exactly my thought, Master Wayne. Master Dick, would you like me set it up for you while you eat?"

"Yeah! I mean, yes please!"

"Then I shall. In the meantime, Master Wayne, would you please open up the cooler and serve yourself and Master Dick dinner? You'll find everything you need inside."

"Uh...sure. Here, Dick, you hold the lantern so I can see once I get the lid off."

When the cooler's contents were revealed, the seated pair exchanged a curious look. "It's bread," Dick said, identifying one of the contents easily.

"There must be soup in the thermos," Bruce deduced.

"But soup's not really...you know...camping food," Dick whispered.

Bruce agreed, but he couldn't imagine Alfred screwing up something so simple as a fireside dinner. "Well, let's see. Maybe it's camping soup." He lifted the heavy metal tube, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. "...Stew. It's stew."

"It _is_ camping soup!" The boy leaned over the arm of his chair and fished a pair of tin cups out of the cooler's depths. "Here are our bowls. I'll find the spoons..."

Before long they were both scraping the sides of their cups clean with thick slices of crusty bread. "That was amazing," Dick sighed as he slumped back in his chair.

"Do you want more?" asked Bruce, who was finishing his second serving. "There's still a little left."

"Huh-uh. I'm stuffed. Hey look! The stars are working!"

Indeed, Alfred had finished putting together the projector just as they'd reached a point of satiation. Pinpricks of light appeared on the ceiling, impressing Bruce with their accuracy. "Not bad. Everything in just about the right place for this time of year."

"There are several different options," Alfred shared as he returned to the fire. "I'm sure Master Dick will enjoy the maps of the southern hemisphere some time when Batman is off on a sub-equatorial mission. For tonight I thought our local stars would be best, however. And they will move with the hours, as well; I made sure of that."

"Must have been expensive," Bruce murmured.

"There's the Big Dipper!" Dick, who had turned upside down in his chair so that his head was perpendicular to the ceiling, pointed out. "And Orion, too! Wow, it's all so clear! It's like we're really outside looking at the sky!"

"...Worth every penny, sir," Alfred answered with a smile. "Worth every penny."

* * *

"...Bruce?" a sleepy murmur came from somewhere under the mink blanket several hours later.

"What is it, chum?" The cushioning layers beneath them didn't quite offer the support of a regular mattress, but Bruce was still far more comfortable than he'd expected to be. He was comfortable enough, in fact, that he'd been seriously considering skipping patrol and just going to sleep when Dick had spoken his name.

"I love winter camping."

The billionaire could hardly blame him for that sentiment. After dinner there had been hot chocolate with peppermint – a shot of peppermint flavor for Dick, and a shot of peppermint schnapps for Bruce – and warm, crumbly oatmeal cookies. They'd talked on and on as the fire had burned down and made the stars on the ceiling stand out like tiny fairy lights. Dick had struggled to stay awake, but by nine o'clock the tired droop of his eyelids had been visible despite the semi-darkness. Now they were in this small miracle of a bed, and Bruce heard something unexpected pass his own lips. "Me, too. When it's like this."

"Yeah..." A warm body snuggled closer. "...Bruce?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Could Batman stay home tonight? I mean...if we were really camping, he couldn't go anywhere. Right?"

Bruce sighed. There were things he ought to do on the streets of Gotham tonight, but Dick had tapped straight into the temptation he'd been facing a minute earlier. Plus, Alfred had wished them goodnight rather pointedly after he'd watched them tuck themselves in; it was clear that he expected Batman to stay in, too. "I suppose missing tonight won't be the end of the world," he gave in.

"Oh, good." An arm landed across Bruce's stomach. "G'night, Bruce. I'm glad we went camping. Could we do it again next Christmas?"

He might as well cede that point, too, since he'd already confessed to liking what they'd done tonight. "If you want to, kiddo," he yawned.

"Oh, I will. I'm sure I will."

Bruce smirked at the confidence evident in the young voice beside him. "Go to sleep, Dicky. I'll see you in the morning."

"Mmkay...but Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"D'you think we'll have camping food for breakfast, too?"

"You never know with Alfred. We might."

"I hope so...that would be neat..."

The silence of the solarium was interrupted only by the occasional low _pop_ from the fireplace after that. Bruce stared up at the ceiling, counting the pinpricks of light there, tracing the outlines of the more obscure constellations, and thinking about how he wouldn't have had time to consider the heavens at all if he'd put on the cowl tonight. Camping or not, this was a far better way to have spent the evening than facing down the blackest depths of the human heart. With that in mind, his eyes finally closed out the stars illuminating the smile on his lips.


	14. Clark's Christmases, Part 2

**Author's Note: Last year's series included a story called 'Clark's Christmases' that a large number of readers really liked. Several folks asked to see more of Clark's Christmases at Wayne Manor in the future, so today we have another one to enjoy. I expect to do a third Christmas from Clark's POV this year as well, and more in years to come. Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed this year and in the past; I do take your suggestions to heart, and they often inspire the birth of expansions and whole new stories. Your comments really do feed the muse.**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

The Batcave was deserted when Superman stepped out of the Zeta tube. That was as it should have been, since this year Bruce had a better reason than ever not to work on the holiday, but it gave Clark pause. His visits to Wayne Manor for Christmas dinner were a tradition now, and he looked forward to the meal as each December approached, but he wondered if he should have stayed home this year.

Dick was the issue. No, he shook his head; that made the boy sound like a problem, and he was far from being that. It was just that he didn't want to intrude on Bruce's first Christmas with his son. There was Dick's opinion to consider, too. He was a good-natured and friendly kid by anyone's standards, but this was his first Christmas without his parents. He might not want anyone else around while he dealt with the fact that they weren't here to share the day.

Still, the invitation had been issued as usual, and he hadn't sent word ahead that he wasn't coming. It would be rude not to at least go upstairs and say hello. If it looked like he was going to be a third wheel he could always make his excuses and leave. Besides, maybe with a kid in the house Bruce would actually be joyful on Christmas Day. A smirk crossed Clark's lips as he headed towards the changing area, where Alfred had taken to keeping a few spare outfits for him. A joyful Bruce Wayne – what a concept...

If Bruce wasn't excited about Christmas, Dick certainly was. Clark was halfway between the foyer and the kitchen when the nine-year-old came skipping out of the living room and started in his direction. He came to a halt when he spotted the visitor, then grinned. "Hi!" The gap between them closed as he started forward again. "Sorry. It took me a second to recognize you as, you know, not-Superman. Bruce said you were coming. He's down in the living room. You should go see him. I need to talk to Alfred about something really quick. See you in a minute!"

All of that information spilled forth in the space of about five seconds. Clark was left blinking in the middle of the corridor as Dick vanished through the kitchen door with a wave. It was amazing, he thought, what sugar could do to an active but otherwise calm child. Over-excited or not, though, what mattered to him was that Dick not only knew he was expected for dinner, but didn't seem to mind the fact. If Bruce felt the same way then he was golden.

For a moment after he entered the grand sitting room Clark was confused. Dick had said Bruce was in here, but there was no sign of the billionaire. Then a muttered curse came from the other side of the massive leather sofa nearest the Christmas tree. "...Bruce?"

"Over here." Clark followed the voice around the edge of the couch and found Bruce sitting on the floor with an array of parts scattered around him and a dreadful frown on his face.

"What is all of this?"

"A remote control helicopter. Don't ask me why the manufacturer thought it would be best to send it out in pieces. And as for these directions…" Bruce's scowl deepened as he held up a flimsy piece of paper covered in tiny diagrams. "I'd throw them in the fire if I didn't think it would upset Dick."

"They must be pretty bad if _you're_ having trouble with them."

"Mm. Suffice it to say that building something out of your own head is entirely different than trying to put someone else's creation back together. Pair that with instructions written by some jackass who'd probably never seen a technical drawing in his life before he drew these ones, and you'll see why I'm wishing I'd just given him actual flying lessons instead of this toy."

"I'm surprised you haven't started those already. Flying lessons, I mean." Robin had been introduced to so many other advanced topics in the six months since his inception that Clark had half-expected him to be an able pilot by now.

"He can't quite reach all of the Batplane's controls without leaving his seat. I told him he'd have to wait until his arms grow a little more. I don't want him to get into the habit of flying without a seatbelt on."

"Ah. That makes sense." He watched as Bruce glared at the remote control plane's assembly instructions again. "…Do you want me to take a look? A fresh pair of eyes might help."

"You might as well. If a technical idiot wrote them, maybe a technical idiot can understand them."

Clark knew Bruce's tones too well to be offended. The billionaire hadn't been trying to level an insult; he'd simply been acknowledging the fact that Clark was less mechanically inclined than he was. Amused, he took the thin sheet of drawings and sat down on the sofa to study them.

He didn't get far in his perusal of the grainy lines and letters before Dick returned to the living room. "Alfred says dinner's almost ready," he announced as he dropped to the rug beside his guardian. "Which is good, because I'm hungry."

"I'm not sure how that's possible, considering all the candy and cookies you've had today," Bruce said.

"Well, Alfred calls all that stuff empty calories. Maybe that's why. I ate lots of calories, but they were empty."

The two men exchanged an amused look. "That's not quite how it works, chum. Regardless of the reason, though, I'm not going to complain about you wanting some normal food after the junk we had earlier."

"Yeah. It would be weird if you only wanted me to eat candy." With that, he turned to Clark. "…Are you helping Bruce put the helicopter together? I tried looking at the instructions, but some of them were confusing."

"I have no doubt that you're just too smart for them," Clark smiled. "Same as Bruce is."

Dick cocked his head to one side. "What do you mean? You're just as smart as we are."

Clark was saved from trying to explain his comment without referencing Bruce's remark – which Dick, he knew, would think unkind even if the billionaire hadn't meant it to be – by Alfred clearing his throat in the doorway. "Sirs, your dinner is ready."

"Yay!" Dick jumped to his feet. "Let's eat!"

* * *

Dinner that night was a more jovial affair than Clark could ever recall attending at Wayne Manor. The combination of Alfred's cooking and Bruce's taciturn personality meant that the past Christmas dinners he'd come for had been focused more on the savoring of food and drink than on talking. The addition of Dick to the table altered that completely. For all that he hadn't yet reached double digits in his age the boy had a knack for facilitating conversation. There was a bit of the off-the-wall chatter that was to be expected from a child, but for the most part they stayed on topic about things that were interesting to all parties.

The change in Bruce was the most obvious difference to years past. While the billionaire was still far from loquacious, he wasn't permitted to lapse into silence anymore. Every time he stepped back and left the dialogue to Clark and Dick, the latter pulled him gently forward again with a pointed question. Stranger still, Bruce didn't seem to mind being forced to interact. It was almost, Clark thought, as if he didn't realize he was being manipulated into playing a better host than usual.

"…I'm not hungry anymore," Dick sighed once they'd made their way back into the living room. Collapsing onto the sofa, he hugged his stomach with both arms. "I might never be hungry again, actually."

"Oh? Then I guess I'll have to eat your bedtime cookie for you," Bruce remarked.

"Well…maybe I'll be hungry by bedtime."

"I thought that might be the case."

"I daresay you're about to get taller, Master Dick," Alfred put in from the corner, where he was busy pouring out two measures of expensive amber liquor. "I always had to cook like I was feeding three young men in the weeks leading up to one of Master Wayne's growth spurts."

"I don't think I'll get _that_ tall, Alfred."

"Not in one go," Bruce agreed. "That would hurt like…that would hurt."

"My legs were kind of achy the last few days. Is that from growing?"

"Probably."

"If it is, young sir," Alfred advised as he handed a tumbler of scotch each to Clark and Bruce, "we'll need to plan an outing to purchase you new uniform slacks for school. I can't let the ones you already have down any further, I'm afraid. Your other trousers can be adjusted, but not those."

"Oh." A contrite look came over Dick's face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Bruce admonished him. "C'mon, kiddo, we talked about this."

"But those pants are _expensive_! And you just bought me a ton of stuff for Christmas!"

"And you know that I don't care how much those things cost. Besides, my wishing that you would stop growing so that I didn't have to buy you new uniforms would be even stranger than my wishing that you only wanted to eat candy."

"Well, yeah, but…" Dick slumped sideways so that his head rested on Bruce's leg. "They're still expensive."

"Then stop looking at the price tags, Dicky. You won't feel so bad if you don't know how much they cost."

Clark nearly choked as he tried to laugh and swallow his drink at the same time. The idea of Batman advising his protégé to _not_ pay attention to something, anything, was too much. "Nothing," he shook his head when Bruce shot him a look. "Just, ah…wrong pipe."

"…Mm."

Quiet fell. Alfred vanished back in the direction of the kitchen, and Dick began to hum a low melody that Clark didn't recognize. Bruce's eyes seemed to be riveted to the low fire burning in the grate opposite the couch. Feeling as if he wanted mental stimulation that didn't involve much movement, Clark sat down beside the miniaturized helicopter parts that Bruce had abandoned and picked up the instructions once more.

The further he got in his reading the more he understood why the others had been so frustrated. Some of the wiring was complex for even a very intelligent nine-year-old to manage, and the fuzzy images that had been provided didn't help anything. Bruce's problem would have been one of patience; one step might show three or four tasks being completed only for the next to focus entirely on the insertion of a single screw. It was the sort of inconsistency that could give a Zen master a headache, and Clark could easily imagine how it must have annoyed the efficient, rule- and pace-regulated billionaire.

Clark's tolerance level was much higher than Bruce's, but by the time he had a fully-assembled toy in his hands even he was beginning to chafe. "…Okay," he said, letting out a long, relieved breath. "I think this is good to go."

Dick's eyes had shut at some point in the past half hour, but they popped open at his announcement. "You built it!" he exclaimed with a grin. Slithering onto the floor, he reached out to take his gift. "Wow! Thank you! Bruce, can we fly it? Please?"

Bruce shook himself out of his fireside stupor. "There's not really room in here, chum. And there are a few things on the walls that Alfred wouldn't be too happy about seeing broken."

"Well…what about the foyer? The ceilings are higher in there, and there's not really anything to break."

"True. But I have a better idea." Bruce stood up and started towards the door. Dick followed him, then turned back and met Clark's gaze.

"You're coming too, right? I don't know where we're going – the ballroom, maybe, that has tons of empty space – but it's no fair if you don't get to see the helicopter fly after you put it together."

Clark rose to his feet and gave the child an appreciative smile. "Thanks for the invite, pal. I'd love to see it fly."

It was indeed the ballroom that Bruce led them to. Dick mastered the basics of remote piloting in a matter of minutes, and the two men watched from party chairs at the edge of the dance floor as he worked to refine his technique. "…Clark."

"What's up?"

"How _did_ you get that thing together?"

"Perseverance and a high tolerance for repetition, mostly. If Dick was a little older he probably could have done it himself. It was kind of advanced even for him, but he seems to have the patience for things like that. I mean, not many kids could keep themselves from asking how much longer it was going to be before they could play with something they were excited about. He didn't even ask once while I was working on it."

"He dozed off."

"Even so. He wasn't pestering you about it before I showed up, was he?"

Bruce grimaced. "No." A beat passed. "Maybe he should have been, though."

"He's just a patient kid, Bruce. That's not a bad thing."

"It's not necessarily a good thing, either. It's possible to have too much patience."

"Maybe," Clark replied lightly. "But patience seems to have made him pretty happy this time around. And isn't his happiness what matters?"

Bruce's mouth opened, then shut. His gaze traveled out to where Dick was giggling as he made the helicopter circle his head. "…Point taken."

Clark chuckled, knowing that those two words were the closest thing to a thank you that he was going to get from the billionaire. "You're welcome."

* * *

A little while later Clark found himself back in the Batcave and saying his adieus. "Alfred, thanks for another great dinner. I spend all of December drooling at the prospect of having one of your steaks, and tonight's didn't disappoint."

"You're very kind, Mr. Kent. I'm pleased you could join us again this year."

"Me, too." He turned to Bruce. "Thanks for the hospitality," he said. "And you too, Dick. You were great."

"Thanks!" The boy threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Clark's waist. "You're coming next Christmas, right?" he peered upward to ask. "And in between, too?"

"Of course he is," Bruce said wryly. "He shows up every Christmas. And in between, too."

"And he's welcome every time," Alfred prompted.

"…Right."

"Good," Dick ruled as he backed up to stand beside his guardian once more. "Because I had fun tonight."

"I'm glad to hear it," Clark smiled. "So did I. Bruce, I'll see you Saturday. Dick, Alfred…I'll see you next time."

"We'll let you know the next time steak's on the menu," Dick said seriously. Beside him, Bruce winced.

Clark laughed and took pity on his friend. "Maybe make it the time after that, pal. I wouldn't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing. He wouldn't be, right, Bruce?"

There was mirth in Alfred's eyes as he stepped into the debate. "We'll be sure to invite you again soon, Mister Kent. Good night."

"Night, all." Raising one hand, he stepped back into the Zeta tube. Bruce might not have been exactly joyful tonight, but he'd been far more interactive than Clark could ever remember him being before. And Dick…if dinners at Wayne Manor had been pleasant in previous years, they promised to be straight up fun with the boy in the house. Clark had brushed off the suggestion of visiting the very next time Alfred made steaks as a courtesy to Bruce, but as the cave fuzzed out of view he knew that when an invitation did finally come his answer would be an immediate and resounding yes.


	15. What Bros Are For

**Author's Note: Here are some bro-tastic Christmas feels set during Dick and Bruce's estrangement. Tomorrow we'll have a piece from Damian's point of view, set during his first Christmas at the Manor (or ever, for that matter). Happy reading!**

* * *

Dick blinked in confusion at the figure filling his doorway. "...Wally? What...what are you doing here?"

The redhead grinned and held up two full armloads of grocery bags. "Bringing you Christmas, bro. Now let me in, would you? I don't want all the ice cream to melt."

"All the...ice cream?" Shaking his sleep-fuzzy head, Dick stepped out of the way. "Kitchen's there," he pointed when Wally looked about searchingly. "C'mon, I'll help you...uh...put this stuff away."

As they crossed the minuscule living room Dick tried to make sense of what was going on. He'd been out until very late last night, first working his last bar-tending shift and then on patrol. The sun had been threatening the shadows when he'd finally dropped into bed and passed out. His exhaustion had been purposefully engineered, with the idea being that he would sleep all through Christmas Eve, wake up in time for an eight or ten hour stretch out on the rooftops of his new city, and then be tired enough again to doze Christmas Day out of existence. If he did that, he'd thought, maybe being away from home in December wouldn't hurt so much.

The plan had been working until a fist pounded on his front door. He didn't mind the intrusion – it had been far too long since he'd seen his best friend, and he'd take whatever moments he could get – but he wasn't sure what had inspired it. He and Wally texted daily, posted things to each other's Facebook walls more often than was probably healthy, and Skyped at least once a week, yet this visit was unexpected. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I could have picked up all this stuff. You didn't have to."

"I didn't know I was coming until this morning," Wally shrugged as he unpacked three gallons of rocky road. "...Crap. This isn't all going to fit in your freezer, is it?"

Dick glanced at his half-size fridge, only a small section of which was designed for freezing food. "No. But fortunately we have Mother Nature." Vaulting onto the wedge of counter between the sink and the stove, he opened the window and leaned outside. "Plenty of room out here on the fire escape. And it's nice and frosty today, too."

"Awesome. Put the beer out there, too. Let it get nice and cold."

When the chilled foods were stashed and a bevy of chips and cookies had been stacked precariously on top of the microwave, Dick turned back to Wally. "You never really answered my question."

Wally paused halfway through chugging a can of soda. "Huh?"

"When I asked why you didn't tell me you were coming."

"Oh." He polished off his drink, crumpled the can, and chucked it into the recycling bin. "Two points. But seriously, I didn't know I was coming until this morning."

There was more to it than that, and Dick knew it. "And the decision was prompted by...?"

"...Ah, hell, bro. How could I _not_ come see you for Christmas? You're miserable here!"

"I'm not miserable here! Bludhaven's great." It was no Gotham, but he liked it. It was his very own city, and Dick felt like he was making progress every time he went out on patrol. That feeling of making a difference would only increase, he was sure, when he started his training at the Bludhaven Police Academy next month. "I mean, it would be nice if Bruce cared about what I was doing," he allowed, not daring to meet Wally's gaze, "but...well. I tried, didn't I? I tried to get his blessing, and he wouldn't give it. That's not my fault, and I'm not going to be the one who gives in. I'm not going to give up what I've worked for. This is my life, and as much as I love and respect him he...he needs to realize that."

"Right!" Wally agreed. Closing the small gap between them, he gripped Dick's shoulder. "But Bruce being a tool shouldn't mean that you have to spend Christmas alone. That's not right for anybody, and especially not you. You love Christmas, bro! I remember all the crazy stuff we used to do back at Mount Justice when December came along. You were always the person who suggested cookie decorating contests and snowball fights and Secret Santas. So when I saw that post you made last night about wishing you had room for a Christmas tree...I dunno, Dick, it was just _sad_. I couldn't stand the thought of you sitting in a treeless apartment all by yourself on Christmas. I had to come. And I had to bring all this junk food, and-" he ducked to retrieve something from the pile of empty bags littering the floor, "-these."

Dick arched an eyebrow as Wally presented him with a box of multicolored lights. "They would liven up the place." In his efforts to distance himself from his memories of Christmases past he had chosen to not decorate any part of his apartment. The post that Wally had reacted to had been a one-off, nostalgic lament inspired by a particularly beautiful tree he'd seen in the window of a department store while on his way to work. Now that he had someone to share the holiday with, though, the idea of putting up some sort of seasonal décor didn't seem so awful.

"I checked out some websites last night. There are tons of things people in little apartments have come up with to decorate without taking up space. One of the best ones I saw was where they string lights on the wall in a zig-zag pattern that makes a triangle. You plug it in, and bam – instant Christmas tree." He dug into the plastic waste again. "I even remembered to get some of those easy-release adhesive hooks, just in case you didn't have nails or whatever."

"Wally…" Dick's eyes were hot. One of Wally's key characteristics was a mild scatter-brainedness that only disappeared when he was deep into a case or when he sincerely wanted to make something perfect. Normal Wally might have spent time looking for ways to bring Christmas into a small space, but he would have forgotten to provide a way to hang the lights he'd purchased. The fact that he'd remembered such an obscure detail this time told Dick how important it was to his friend that he have a good day despite everything that was going on.

"No tears!" Wally ordered. "Seriously, bro, crying on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day is _not_ okay. Not even happy tears. Got it?"

"Can I stick my head out the window again, then, so you don't see?"

"Only if you bring one of those frozen pizzas with you when you come back inside. I'm starving."

An hour later their work was complete. "That looks amazing," Dick grinned as he took in the twinkling tree that now adorned his living room wall.

"My side's kind of…bulgier…than yours is," Wally said, wrinkling his nose. "I can fix it if you want."

"No. It's perfect. Leave it like it is." Just looking at their handiwork brightened his mood more than he'd thought possible today. "I love those fat bulbs. The little tiny ones you see around are pretty, but there's something so _Christmas_ about the fat ones."

"They're like Santa. What's the word? Rotund?"

"Yeah. Exactly. Rotund. Christmas is a time for being fat." A beat passed. "So…what's next?"

"More pizza?"

"That's all you, bro," Dick laughed. "Christmas might be a time for being fat, but I'm stuffed."

"Okay. So I'll go make a pizza – maybe two," Wally frowned as his stomach rumbled audibly, "and you find a movie you want to watch."

"A Christmas movie?"

"Duh, dude. It's Christmas, isn't it? So let's watch _all_ the Christmas things."

Dick beamed. "All the Christmas things it is, Wals." He normally began his holiday movie viewing over Thanksgiving weekend, but all he'd seen this year was fifteen minutes of 'White Christmas' that he'd stumbled across on TV. That small dose of the holidays had left him depressed for days, but things were different now that Wally was here. Now, he thought as he sat down on the couch and began to queue up his favorite seasonal titles, he had some serious catching up to do…

* * *

By nightfall their eyes were screen-glazed and aching. "I need a break," Wally apologized.

"No, man, it's cool. I could do with a stretch." True to his word, Dick stood up and extended his arms over his head. A long yawn escaped him. Despite the minimal amount of sleep he'd gotten, he wasn't really tired. In fact, his muscles were crying out to be used. "Want to take a walk? There's a big lights display in the plaza by the river that I haven't been to yet. Could be neat."

"Sounds good to me. I need to burn off some energy."

"…Maybe we should clean up first and take the garbage out with us," Dick said as he surveyed the state of his living room. "That way we can move when we get back." Space had grown more and more limited as food had migrated in from the kitchen. Empty pizza boxes, ice cream cartons, and beer bottles filled the coffee table and overflowed into stacks on the floor. The recycling bin beside the fridge in the next room was at capacity, too, and Dick knew that there was at least one more six pack of soda in the fridge waiting to be consumed.

"Yeah…I guess I kind of trashed your place, huh?"

"Dude, you brought me a Christmas tree. A little garbage is a small price to pay."

Once their trash had been dumped into the bins at the back of the building they turned towards the river. "It's a bit of a walk for a couple of perfectly normal humans," Dick advised. "Like, two and a half miles each way kind of a walk. I think the subway's running until midnight tonight, though, if you want to take that instead."

Wally considered his proposal for a moment. "Nah. Maybe on the way back, but right now a couple miles of walking sounds pretty good. If you're up for it, I mean."

"Sure. I'm up for anything." It was chilly out, and the temperature was supposed to drop further overnight, but Dick knew he'd be sweating by the time they reached the lights display. With Wally at his side, the walk would likely fly even if he did start to get cold.

They joked and chatted all the way to the waterfront. For a little while Dick could almost pretend like it was old times again. It was Wally who had moved to a new city, he fantasized, and he himself who was visiting at Christmastime. When the trip was over he would go home, home to Bruce, home to Alfred, home to the holidays he longed for. There had been no fight, no break-up of the team of Batman and Robin, and no reason for him to feel like he'd lost his father all over again. All was well.

But after they'd seen all the lights and decorations and booths, while Dick leaned against an icy railing and waited for Wally to finish purchasing enough hot dogs to power him back to the apartment, reality reasserted itself. Directly across the dark water from him were the towers of central Gotham, amongst which Batman would surely be swinging tonight. He should be over there too, catching baddies at his mentor's side until it was time to disappear back into the hills and end the evening with a few of Alfred's best Christmas cookies. It was great to have Wally here, and he was grateful that the other man had gone through so much effort to make him feel better, but it still wasn't quite _right_.

"…I know it's hard, bro," the speedster's voice sounded beside him suddenly, "but it's not your fault."

"That almost makes it worse, though."

"Yeah. But…look, don't quote me on this, but I've seen him around…well, you know where. Up high in the sky. Anyway, he's lost without you. He's mopey and nasty and no one can stand to be around him. More than one person who's known him since before you were around has gotten into it with him, trying to make him realize that he's being an idiot. I don't know how that's going, but I think it's starting to finally sink in that you're not going to be the one who gives in. I think he's starting to accept that you're just as stubborn as he is when it really matters."

Wally paused. "I was there when S. told him you'd gotten into the academy," he continued finally. "I wasn't supposed to be there, but I tried to channel you so I could just fade into the background unnoticed. It must have worked, because I saw everything. I saw the way his mouth looked when he heard the news. He was _pissed_. You know that look. I think even S. flinched. But there was a lot of pride there, too, and he couldn't hide it all. It came through the anger, and it told me…well. It told me that there was hope." He took a massive bite out of one of the sausages he'd purchased. "Anyway, I don't fink you'll be banifed to thif side of the rifer nest year, bro. Juft a hunsh."

Dick wasn't sure what made him feel the most better, the promising information about Bruce or the familiar sight of Wally dropping crumbs all over himself as he spoke around a mouthful of food. "…Thanks," he sniffled, swiping at his cheeks. "That helps, believe it or not. The idea that this fight won't last forever…it helps a lot."

"Here." A foil-wrapped package was shoved forward. "This'll help, too. I put all your favorite toppings on it."

"Heh. Okay. Cool." Unwrapping it, Dick sank his teeth into warm bread and spicy meat. Through some sort of strange gastronomic magic the combination of grease and carbs really did improve his outlook a bit further. This might not be the Christmas he'd been aching for, but standing in the frosty air with bright lights behind him, good food in his hand, and his best friend at his side was the greatest substitute he could have hoped for. "So what's next on the schedule?"

"That's up to you. We could go back and watch more movies, we could go back and sleep, we could keep walking and talking, we could go...out…whatever you want."

"Did you come prepared to go…out?"

"No, but it would take all of five minutes for me to fix that."

He'd planned to patrol tonight before Wally's unexpected arrival, and if the redhead was game there was no good reason not to. It had been months since he'd worked with another superhero on anything, and longer still since he'd worked with Flash. It would be nice not to be solo for once. "Then let's go out," Dick decided. "Let's go out and have some fun. And when we sleep that off-"

"If we sleep that off," Wally interjected. "You know how we are. We don't sleep when we're hanging out unless we pass out from sheer exhaustion."

"Okay," Dick chuckled, " _if_ we sleep that off, there are still plenty more Christmas movies we could watch. And the gas stations will be open tomorrow if you want more pizza."

"Think the Chinese places will be open? I could go for some Chinese."

"There's always one that's open on Christmas. That sounds good to me." General Tso's wasn't Alfred's filet mignon, but that was okay. If things had to be different this year, he'd make them different in his own way. Going his own way was, after all, the entire reason he was on the Bludhaven side of the river on Christmas Eve. Having no traditions for a holiday on his own just meant he'd have to create new ones, and right now he was open to whatever came. "Movies, Chinese, going out…it all sounds good to me."

Swallowing the last of his sausage, he straightened his shoulders and looked out at Gotham once more. This time his eyes stayed dry, and his regrets were vague, distant things. It was the best season of the year, and thanks to Wally he was done trying to ignore that fact. "…Hey, Wals?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming to Bludhaven. It means a lot to me. It…it made a big difference."

Wally slung an arm across Dick's shoulders and squeezed him tight. "Hey, no worries. That's what bros are for."

"Yeah, well…I've got the best one I could ever ask for."

"Nah. What you _do_ have, though, is a bro who could really stand to go for a run. So, should we head back and get this two-man Christmas party started?"

Dick sent a fierce smile across the water. He hoped Batman was watching right now, and could see him like this, happy and confident and ready for the future. Maybe that would be the straw that broke the camel's back. But even if it wasn't, Dick refused to make himself miserable about their divide any longer. Bruce would come around eventually, and until then he had his own life to live. "…Let's do this."


	16. Transplants

**Author's Note: AngelOfGrace96 requested a piece showing Damian's first Christmas, and my head ran away with the idea. We often see Damian disparaging Christmas, but we never really learn what his problem with it is. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to throw one possibility out there. For the purposes of this story Damian is 10-11ish years old, and is not yet Robin (or even going out on patrol yet). Happy reading!**

* * *

Damian understood Christmas as it had been explained to him by his mother. Every year, she'd said, people of certain religious and cultural backgrounds hacked down trees, brought them into their homes, and hung baubles on them while they withered and died. Wasteful amounts of food were prepared and eaten, not just at one meal but for parties and reunions all through the month preceding the holiday. Amounts of money greater than the GDP of some nations were spent on gifts that were for the most part unneeded or unwanted by the recipients. And at the end of this bacchanal people were so exhausted from the extra commitments, extra food, and extra spending that they sank into a seasonal depression that lingered until spring.

Since then he had learned to distrust much of what his mother had told him about the world and the people in it. When it came to Christmas, however, she seemed to have gotten things right. The madness she had described didn't even wait for the calendar to turn to December before it started, as Damian had learned from Black Friday news reports about in-store assaults, thefts, and destruction of property.

Scenes like those featured on the television had both amused and disgusted him. On the one hand, it was always a pleasure to see someone greedy enough to push over an innocent store employee at the door get their comeuppance in the form of a trip or an elbow from another shopper. On the other, these were people who would fight viciously over the last of Product X but probably wouldn't stand up for right and justice if they saw someone being abused on the street. Consumer goods were clearly more important to most than the common decency that the season touted was.

The worst part was that the sickness had crept into Wayne Manor. No one from the house had participated in the Black Friday madness, but there were other signs of waste and pointlessness that made up for that. The most obvious were the preparations for the Wayne Foundation's Winter Fete, which would be held in the ballroom on the weekend before Christmas. Damian had gotten a glimpse at the list of canapes that were to be on offer, and knew that those thousands upon thousands of tiny snacks would take dozens of man-hours and hundreds of pounds of raw food to create. New clothing had been ordered for the occasion, and he had to assume that the attendees would be wearing fresh purchases as well. Most irksomely, he'd been informed that patrol didn't happen on the night of the Fete. He might not have been allowed out at night with the others yet, but the principle at hand remained.

Damian understood that the Fete raised a great deal of money for charity – with a $5000 ticket cost and a history of selling out it couldn't fail to – but that wasn't the point. Batman and the others were setting aside their real work to eat shrimp and hobnob, and he hated it. It would have been better, he thought, if Father simply gave an extra $1.5 million to the Foundation and then went out for the night as usual. They might have had twice as much impact if things were done that way, and they could have saved all of that food and liquor, too.

Everyone kept telling him that Christmas was the time to be extra kind to one's fellow men and to try and do more good than usual, but no one seemed to be following their own advice.

He'd hoped that Grayson might be immune to this hypocrisy, since if anyone would leap on an excuse to be nicer and do more it was him. To his disappointment he'd discovered that Dick was even more in love with Christmas than most. In the man's defense he _did_ have a fair bit of volunteer work lined up for himself this month, and he had confided that he also hated the fact that patrol was cancelled on Fete night. That only made everything more confusing, though. How could someone who embodied the characteristics that Christmas was supposed to bring out in everyone adore all of the useless schlock that had buried the message?

The tree was a case in point. Damian, remembering his mother's remarks about evergreens being cut down in the prime of life and dragged inside to die, secretly wished that they wouldn't have one this year. He disparaged the entire idea as being ridiculous whenever he could, but to no avail. Dick tried to win him over by sharing that choosing and decorating the family tree was one of his favorite things about Christmas. Drake had remarked that they weren't going to deviate from two hundred years of tradition just because Damian had a stick up his butt about it. And both Father and Pennyworth had made it clear in their own ways that Christmas trees were something that was simply Done in the Wayne household.

Now Damian had come home from school to find the sitting room furniture rearranged. There was a large open space where a conversational grouping of chairs had sat before, and there was only one thing that could mean; this weekend was Christmas tree choosing weekend.

"Dami?"

Damian turned to find Grayson standing in the doorway. "What do you want?"

Such a demanding greeting would have earned him a lecture had he directed it at Father or Pennyworth, and an eye-roll if he'd aimed it at Drake. But Dick wasn't them, and consequently his reaction was one of concern. "I heard you and Alfred come in, so I thought I'd see how school was today," he answered with a frown. "But now I mostly want to know what's bothering you." Advancing into the room, Dick sat down on a repositioned sofa. "So what's up?"

Damian looked away. "Nothing. I'm going to my room."

"...It's the tree, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah…it's the tree." Dick sighed and leaned forward in his seat. "Look, Dami…I know you're not the world's biggest fan of Christmas. I'm not sure why that is, but you've made it pretty obvious over the last couple of weeks. But I feel like something's changed now. You're not complaining any more, you're just walking away. It's like you're giving up, and that's not you. I don't want you to feel closed out of Christmas, and I definitely don't want you to feel like no one's listening to your thoughts about important things like family celebrations. So would you please tell me what's on your mind?"

Damian grimaced and tried to keep his thoughts from bursting forth. Dick's calm, caring gaze stayed on him, though, and after a minute he broke. "It's all such a waste, and what's the point? Everybody says one thing and does another. I can deal with that the rest of the year – it's not like it ever goes away – but it's so amped up right now, so in your face…I hate it. I hate the hypocrites, I hate the overspending and overeating and over _everything_ that comes with this holiday.

"And I hate that you're part of it. I hate that you and the others give into it. You're supposed to be better than all those people, and right now you're not. You're participating in the same weird hysteria that they all are. Batman is skipping a patrol to drink Champagne, Pennyworth is out buying presents by the cartload, and in a couple of days we're going to chop down a tree just because we want to bring it inside and stare at it for a while.

"What good does any of that do? People won't get saved next Saturday, and criminals won't be brought to justice. None of us _needs_ the junk that's getting bought. The tree is a self-serving frivolity of the worst kind. Do you know how many trees get cut down for Christmas every year?"

Dick was staring at him with wide eyes, but he just shook his head and let Damian continue. "30 million, and that's in the United States alone. That's a _lot_ of trees, and they all go in the dump by January 1st. Humanity is about to come face to face with serious global climate change that will negatively affect billions, and what's their response? Cut down a bunch of trees, every year, forever. Where's the good feeling and kindness in _that_? Where's the care for mankind that they're supposed to feel and act on?

"People want to be happy and celebrate, I know," Damian waved off Dick's attempt to open his mouth. "Fine. Whatever. I don't know why they bother – it's not like stringing a bunch of lights on your house is going to make winter go away any faster – but I can accept that human beings like celebrations. What I _don't_ get is why the party has to be such a waste of time and resources.

"If they were investing that time and those resources in what they say the season is about maybe it wouldn't seem so backwards, but they don't. Those appetizers for the Fete aren't going to feed hungry people, and those gifts aren't practical things that will be given to people in need. Maybe some people donate extra to charity or whatever at this time of year, but it's not their primary focus. It's just a way to assuage their guilt. The world is full of hypocrites," he snarled finally, "and I guess I'm really seeing it, really _understanding_ it, for the first time."

Dick blinked at him for a long moment after his diatribe was finished. When he finally spoke he said the last thing Damian expected to hear. "…You're not wrong, little brother."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that people are hypocrites. Every last one of us is, me and you included," he said with a tiny smile. "And Christmas is an incredibly wasteful holiday from the materials standpoint. I remember Christmases with my parents, before I came here. We had a few things under the tree apiece, and they were things we needed; coats, pants, blankets, stuff like that. We'd each have a little something fun, too, but it wasn't like it is here, and it wasn't like the houses you see on the Internet with presents stacked up as tall as the tree.

"I have to admit, it bothers me sometimes how much we spend on gifts for each other in this family. It's too much, it really is, and the money could go to better things. But I don't say anything – I participate with gusto, in fact – for two reasons. One, because I'm a hypocrite. Part of me _likes_ getting tons of presents even though I know I don't need them, and all of me likes seeing other people open things I've gotten them. Trust me, there's going to be a little part of you that likes getting presents, too, and part of you that likes making others happy. Two, because spending money is a big part of the way Bruce shows affection. If there was a moratorium on piles of presents I think he would feel like he'd lost one of the easiest paths he has to telling us that he loves us. Maybe that's a lame excuse, but I don't have the heart to limit him further in something he already has such difficulty with. Not even on principle.

"As for the Fete…you're right that some people might not be saved that night, and that some criminals might escape justice. I can't argue with that. But it does a different kind of good, and that's worth something. One of the hardest things about trying to perform any complex task, Dami, is accepting that you can't be everywhere at once. That applies as much to running a company as it does to saving lives and arresting baddies. You have to balance all the little parts that make up the whole, and the Fete is part of the balance between Batman – and Robin, and Nightwing, and whoever you'll be someday, whether that's another Robin or someone else – and Bruce Wayne. You have to treat both sides of the equation, or the whole thing falls apart. We're just lucky that we're in a position to do good on the civilian side of our lives, too.

"Finally, for all that everyone is a hypocrite not just at Christmas but all the time, a lot of extra good does come out of this time of the year. There are some Grinches out there, yes, but there's tons of goodwill, too. Maybe some people would buy a homeless person lunch any time of the year, or rush to help an old lady cross the street, but I seem to notice a whole lot more of it going around come December. I met a mugging victim one who told me the thief said he was going to let him live because it was Christmas and he'd seen the pictures of his kids in his wallet. That was a one-off, sure, but the guy who got to go home to his family sure didn't seem to mind.

"So yeah, Dami, a lot of what we do to mark Christmas is wasteful and superfluous. But it's also beautiful, and it inspires people to be more beautiful to each other, if only for a little while. And for all that we go too far sometimes, I'm not sure that the overall trade-off is such a bad deal."

Damian didn't respond at first. "…You've really seen all that? The good things?" he asked eventually.

"Yes. I have. It doesn't get covered on the news much because bad things make better headlines, but I've seen it. You'll see it, too. The longer you spend here, the more of it you'll see. And if you're ever having trouble making it out, just let me know. I'll be happy to help you find what you're looking for."

He still wanted to see what Grayson was talking about for himself, but until that happened Damian supposed he could take the man's word that Christmas actually did inspire the concepts it pushed. There was still one thing bothering him, though, and he had to know what and answer would be to that particular problem. "What about the Christmas trees? I guess they're part of the inspiration to do good because of the season, but it's still incredibly stupid to cut down millions of the things you need to breathe just so they can be pretty in your house for a couple of weeks and then go to the dump."

"Sure, although you should know that most Christmas trees come from farms where they're specifically planted to be harvested and sold at a later date. So in a way the demand for fresh Christmas trees causes more trees to be planted than are cut down. But the reason I didn't offer an excuse for that before is because I might have a solution instead."

"What?" Damian scoffed. "We're having a tree this year." He waved his hand at the empty space behind him. "That much is obvious."

"We are having a tree this year. There's nothing we can do about that, the same as there's nothing we can do about the Winter Fete or the excess of gifts that are going to be waiting for us come Christmas Day. But it doesn't have to be the same tree we've always gotten."

"I doubt Pennyworth or Father will allow a fake tree."

"So do I. But we might be able to talk them into getting a live one."

"…A live Christmas tree?"

"Yeah. It won't be nearly as tall as our usual one, but it will still be fresh. They come with the roots bound up in a burlap sack, and so long as we only have it inside for a few days and we take care of it properly until we can plant it in spring it should survive. I don't know if Alfred will take on keeping it alive after Christmas, though. You might have to volunteer for that little chore."

Damian knew it was a token gesture in the face of all the other problems he'd outlined, but it was better than nothing. And even if he had to take care of it himself, at least he wouldn't have to stare at a dying conifer for two weeks. "They'll only say yes if you bring it up."

"I don't mind putting the suggestion out there, but you have to be present too. I think that if Bruce sees that doing this will make you less negative about Christmas he'll go for it. Okay?"

"Okay."

Dick smiled, then stood up and ruffled Damian's hair. "I'm glad we talked, little brother. Now, I've got some stuff to do downstairs. But I'll see you at dinner, huh?"

"Yeah." When Dick had gone, Damian flattened his hair and considered the gap in the furniture that had been made for the tree. There were still plenty of things he didn't like about the way Christmas was celebrated in Gotham, but if nothing else now the tree at Wayne Manor didn't have to be one of them. Taking a deep breath, he whispered thanks into the empty air. "…I'm glad we talked, too, Dick. I'm glad we talked too."


	17. Christmas at World's End, Part 1

**Author's Note: This started off as a fun little one-shot of Batman and a teenage Robin (Dick), but then I decided that we need a little more action in our Christmas countdown. That being said, this story will now be a two-, and possibly a three-parter (the muse is as yet undecided). Prepare for a trip to the South Pole, a nefarious scheme, and plenty of Robin kicking baddie butt!**

 **And yes, there is a special connections between Christmas and the South Pole. Stay tuned for the big reveal!**

* * *

Batman had to fight to keep his lips from turning up as Robin appeared around a corner. His protege had always done acceptably well in the field, but in the last six months or so he had truly come into his own. The mission they were in the process of wrapping up had made his growing maturity clearer than ever, and judging from the look of respect on the face of the uniformed man who was following the teen Batman wasn't the only one who was impressed. Pride laced with sadness rose in his chest. It wouldn't be long before Robin didn't need him anymore...

"Major," Robin said as he and the new arrival drew to a halt in front of him. "This is Batman. Batman, Major Isley. He's here to take all the ICE guys to jail until they can go up before the ICC."

"Do you have others with you to keep these people from escaping before the International Criminal Court can see them?" Batman asked. Just because he and Robin could take down an entire unit of villains didn't mean that a single soldier could handle them in the aftermath. "They're skilled fighters, and they will try to escape if they sense weakness."

"I have twenty armed and experienced men with me," Isley nodded. "I sent them to the mess hall to refuel. We had a long flight, and I want them fully alert to handle the task ahead of us. But I was hoping you'd share a few details before we transfer the prisoners. Who or what is ICE, and why were they a threat? The UN Security Council referred this case to the ICC just this morning, and from what I understand they got it straight from the Justice League only a few hours before that. These ICE people must have done something pretty awful if they got a bunch of bureaucrats to work together that quickly. That being the case, I'd like to know what kind of scum I'm babysitting. I'm sure you understand."

"…Mm." Batman looked at his partner, who shrugged despite the fact that he couldn't possibly have seen the questioning glance that had been sent his way. "Fine." Giving the new arrival a basic rundown of events would delay their return home, but the information might help ensure that the captured squad stayed in custody during the long trip back to civilization. As little as Batman wanted to miss what small part of Christmas would be left by the time they got back to Gotham, he wanted to go right back out after the same fiends they'd just nabbed even less. "Robin, guard the prisoners."

"You got it."

"Major…follow me."

"Have fun!" Robin called after them as Batman headed towards the tiny conference room he'd commandeered as soon as he'd arrived at South Pole Station. "Don't be too stingy on the deets, Bats! The Major's on our side!"

Isley chuckled. Batman half-glared at him, but to his credit the Major didn't flinch. "No disrespect meant," he explained instead. "He's just a good kid whose forthrightness amused me. I like him."

"Your opinion about Robin is inconsequential to our purpose, Isley," Batman said even as he swelled with satisfaction. Good. Forthright. Likeable. That was Robin, through and through. Batman knew his son's best traits, but he didn't mind hearing someone else recognize them from time to time. Still, that was no reason to let the Major get too friendly.

"…You _are_ a real son of a gun, aren't you? Just like they say you are. Huh."

Batman had no response to that, so he simply turned a corner fast enough to make his cape snap behind him. "This way. And hurry; I have other things to do."

* * *

It had started three days earlier with a visit from Superman. "I've got something right up your alley," the Kryptonian remarked as he stepped from the Zeta tube. "Dick, you're really going to love it."

"I am?"

"We're in costume," Batman growled.

Superman sighed. "Well then _Robin_ will really love it."

"What is it?" the teen asked eagerly.

"A mission to the South Pole."

"Ooh…" Robin grinned. "The North Pole would be more seasonal appropriate, but I've been there before. Not to the South, though. Gosh, I hope we see penguins!"

"You won't," Batman informed him. "They don't go that far inland."

"Aw. Bummer. But still, the South Pole! What's the mission, Superman?"

The mission, as it turned out, was related to a series of scientific observations that had been noted over the past several months. The world's climatology community had expected ice melt on the southernmost continent to be higher this year than last, but the iceberg calving rates they'd seen since the beginning of the Antarctic spring far surpassed even their most dire modeling. Worse still was the fact that several important glaciers appeared to be flowing towards the ocean at twice the previously recorded speed, increasing the amount of ice that was in position to break off. Two of those glaciers had also developed massive transverse splits near their terminuses the source of which no one could explain. In short the ice was rushing down to and out into the sea in a greater volume than ever before, posing a threat not only to shipping but, if the trend continued, to coastal zones around the world as well.

"Why would global warming speed up like that, though?" Robin inquired when Superman paused. "And in only one place? The North Pole melt wasn't crazy like that this year, was it?"

"No, it wasn't. That's why the folks who monitor these things came to us; they don't believe these changes are being caused by global warming. What they believe – and what I believe, after looking at all the documents they provided – is that someone is causing these fractures deliberately." Superman held out a jump drive. "Here. It's everything they gave me. I know what I'm saying might sound ridiculous, but once you see what's on here you'll agree that something unnatural is going on."

Batman crossed his arms. "Have the others seen this?"

"Nobody else is available to see it. Everyone is on other assignments."

"Assignments more important than someone trying to accelerate the global sea level rise?"

"They're important assignments, Batman, yes. I'll go through the list of where everyone currently associated with the JLA who is at a level to handle something like this is if you want, but we both know that would just be wasting time."

Robin turned a quizzical look on his mentor. "…Don't you want to take it, Batman? It sounds important. I mean, the Antarctic ice sheet holds, like, sixty percent of the planet's fresh water. It would be really bad if these guys pushed a bunch of that into the ocean to melt."

Batman recognized the serious nature of Superman's request, but he still hoped that someone else could take care of it. Christmas was in a scant few days, and a trip to the South Pole wasn't likely to be any less than forty-eight hours. Dick was out of school for break, so that wasn't a problem, and excuses could be made to the office if things stretched out towards the end of the year, but that wasn't the point. It wouldn't feel the same if they had to drag their mission-exhausted selves through a late Christmas. His son wasn't getting any younger, and there was no guarantee that their holidays together would last once Dick turned eighteen and took the world on for himself. Bruce was desperate to savor the special moments he had left, and this mission might easily make that difficult.

But he couldn't argue that this was an important task, and his reason for wanting to foist it onto someone else was too private to share. Besides, Clark had been careful to leave him as a last resort for end-of-the-year JLA missions ever since Dick had come into his life; if the Kryptonian was asking now, he really didn't have any other options. "…Fine," he agreed after a long pause. "We'll take it." At least they'd be on the mission together.

And thus they had found themselves going over evidence in the Batplane during the grueling flight to Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, where Superman had arranged for them to base their operations. The increased ice activity had been noted in three main areas, and in terms of being as equidistant as possible to all of them setting up at the South Pole itself made the most sense. Batman's sense that he wasn't going to be home in time for Christmas grew stronger the deeper he read into the files, and before long both he and Robin were convinced that there truly was something nefarious going on.

The question was who was behind it. Purposefully speeding up global climate change was the sort of thing that Batman could imagine Ra's al-Ghul being behind, if only because doing so had the potential to wipe out many large population and industry centers fast. This didn't feel like one of his plans, though. It lacked his usual subtlety, and Ra's had enough connections in the realms of both government and science to keep something like this under wraps for longer than a couple of months besides.

No, this was someone else. Superman's notes stated that there had been no recent activity among any of the usual suspects, which left Batman to conclude that they were dealing with an entirely new enemy. All he and Robin could discern beyond that was that the person or people they were looking for had access to large amounts of explosives and a helicopter. Explosives were the only thing they knew of other than the Earth itself that might have the power to crack a glacier almost in half, and the distances between the various sites compared with the timing of the ice-breaking events meant that their villains had fast, versatile transport. There had been no sightings of odd aircraft or unknown personnel reported by any of the research stations, though, and none of the science or adventure groups that had been to one of the targeted locations had been to any of the others.

For all they had to go on they might as well have been chasing phantoms. When they'd gone through everything they'd been given twice more without uncovering anything else that might help them, Batman closed all of the files and turned to Robin. "We still have ten hours to go. We need to get some sleep so we can get started as soon as we land."

"Sure," Robin yawned. "Sounds like a plan. Are you leaving the plane on autopilot?"

"Yes." The Batplane was programmed to sound a tone if conditions either inside or outside changed to the point of requiring human intervention. This wouldn't be the first time that they had taken rest in the cockpit, and past experience told Batman that the alarm was sufficient to wake him if need be. "…Robin," he murmured when he'd darkened the windshield tint to maximum and they had both reclined their specially-designed seats as far as they would go.

"Yeah, Batman?"

"You should know…this isn't how I planned our Christmas to go. I know it isn't Christmas yet, but there's a good chance we won't be home for it."

"I know. Al-…Agent A basically said as much when I explained what was going on. You know, while you were loading the plane? Anyway…it's okay. Saving the world is way more important than being home to open presents. I mean, I really don't want to see Gotham under a bunch of water. Although it _would_ be kind of neat if all of our local baddies had to start going around in boats," the teen said thoughtfully. "Then it would be like we were fighting pirates, and that's pretty awesome."

"Just wait. I'm sure you'll get a pirate-fighting mission someday. Ideally _not_ in Gotham," Batman added. "I prefer to fight on dry ground."

"Yeah…" Neither spoke for a minute. Then; "…Batman?"

"Mm?"

"I know we both wish we were definitely going to be home for Christmas, but if we're not I'm glad that I'm at least with you. It would suck to be stuck in Gotham with Alfred right now. As much as I love Alfred," Robin said quickly, "I wouldn't want you to be on this mission by yourself. It feels big, and it's Christmas, and…well, I'm glad we're away from home together. That's all."

In the darkness, Batman smiled to himself. "Me too, Robin. Now go to sleep; we have a lot of ground to search when we land."

"Okay. But I'll tell you something…" The teen yawned again, interrupting himself. "…These people better not have hurt any penguins. _The_ Penguin aside, I like those funny little birds. Hurting penguins, plus keeping us from home on Christmas? Not cool. Even if they _are_ in Antarctica, that would not be cool."

The cockpit fell silent save for the quiet breathing that slowed as Robin passed into sleep. As he listened to it, Batman felt himself calm. If they weren't home in time for Christmas, he would get over it. As Robin had said, at least they were together, and that was what really mattered.


	18. Christmas at World's End, Part 2

**Author's Note: Yup, it's a three-parter. See you tomorrow for the conclusion!**

* * *

"Is your heater working?" Batman asked as he guided the Batplane to a stop at the end of South Pole Station Airport's single packed-snow runway. It might be the height of summer in the southern hemisphere, but they were still at the South Pole. A hot day here featured a high temperature of twenty below, which was the line for skipping patrol back home. There was no way he was letting his son out into such weather without a functioning in-suit heater to keep him warm.

"Yup! I already checked it." Robin was unbuckling his seatbelt as he spoke, clearly eager to get outside and experience Antarctica for himself. "There's a guy out there, by the way. I think he's waiting for us."

Batman couldn't imagine why they'd been sent a welcome committee. The base was an easy five hundred meters from the end of the runway, so no guide was necessary to prevent them getting lost. Nevertheless there was a man in full winter kit standing at the bottom of the ramp as they stepped out into the snow-bright world.

"Howdy," he greeted them in a thick Texas accent. "Welcome to South Pole Station. I'm Gary." A gust of wind threatened to rip away the ten-gallon hat that sat atop Gary's more standard polar headgear. He'd apparently pulled it down tightly, though, as it stayed put. "Follow me on inside, and I'll get you all acquainted with our little home away from home."

"Just the necessities," Batman told him. "We don't have time to waste seeing things we won't be using." The briefest of pouts crossed Robin's face, and Batman felt a flash of guilt. The teen could probably have spent days just talking to all of the people who worked here, let alone exploring the buildings themselves. If it had been any time of the year other than Christmas he would have rescinded his order and let the full tour go ahead. They had to get this mission done as quickly as possible, though, and Robin would no doubt have other opportunities to visit the South Pole. He could chat with everybody then.

They trooped to the gleaming metal behemoth on stilts that housed everything essential for life at the end of the earth. Gary struggled not to go off on tangents about projects and personnel as they walked the halls, but a grimace from Batman served to nudge him back on track time and again. "Anyway, I guess that's everything you'll be needing," he said finally. "I don't reckon you're here to take ice cores or study the latest atmospheric neutrino data, right?"

"No," Batman replied. "You've shown us enough."

"Well let me know if you need anything else. Oh! If you want to go somewhere you can't land that jet of yours, just find Raul. He can take you around in one of the helicopters."

"We won't need a pilot. Just the helicopter." A beat passed as he considered their options. Going over the file again would likely prove useless; the best thing they could do was start looking for signs of their quarry out in the snowy wasteland. "Now."

"…You're gonna go up in a drafty old chopper dressed like that?"

"Yes. We are."

"Well…" Gary glanced at Robin, who was peeking into a room full of complicated scientific equipment. Then he tapped the teen on the shoulder and held something out to him. "Here. You better take my spare hat. His ears are covered, but yours'll freeze out there."

Robin's face lit up. "Thanks!" The cap, a knit red thing with a giant logo patch emblazoned 'South Pole Station,' was immediately on his head. Batman nearly remarked on the fact that Robin had a perfectly good hat of his own in his utility belt, but the joy on his son's face stilled his tongue. "Heh. It matches my clothes. Awesome."

"You keep that," Gary offered. "Call it a little memento of your visit."

"Great! Thanks, Gary!"

"No problem. Here, I'll help you find Raul. Even if you don't want him to take you, you'll have to check the helicopter out with him before you go."

A short while later Batman was back behind the controls of the Batplane. One of the station's two-man helicopters had been loaded into the cargo bay, and as the jet rose into the perfectly clear sky Batman grimaced at the thought of the bright red paint on their borrowed conveyance. Stealth was _not_ going to be on their side on this mission. The sun wouldn't be going down at all, leaving them no shadows to hide in; their costumes would stand out on the expanse of white below them; and the helicopter had been purpose-painted to make it easier to find in the middle of a blank world. With the element of surprise reduced they were going to have to be extra careful when they found the people they were looking for.

Perhaps that should have been _if_ they found the people they were looking for, he thought several hours later as they approached the Trans-Antarctic Mountains. On the far side of the range lay the Ross Ice Shelf, where a large number of the worrisome extra icebergs had started their life at sea. One of the cracked glaciers awaited them there, too, and it was in that direction that Batman directed the plane first. "Robin."

Robin, who hadn't taken off the red knit cap Gary had given him despite the fact that they were in a temperature-controlled plane, turned to him. "What's up?"

"Go find the crampons and the ice axes."

Teeth that approached the snow they were flying over in brightness flashed. "Are we climbing a glacier? Tell me we're climbing a glacier."

"We'll find a spot on the ice shelf to land the plane – it's going to be bumpy, so make sure you come back up front and buckle in when you feel us start to descend – then take the helicopter up Shackleton Glacier from there. I'll get us as close to the new fissure as I can, but we may still have to walk a small distance. Take this," he added, disconnecting his grappling gun from his belt and handing it to the teen. "Change out the hooks to the heavy-duty ice grippers. Make sure you do yours, too." He'd be damned if they would try to scale a wall of frozen water or stop a fall into a crevasse with anything but the best possible equipment.

"You got it! This is going to be fun…"

* * *

"…Still think this is going to be fun?" Batman asked when they finally stood on the glacier's surface.

Robin's voice, like Batman's, was muffled by the half-mask covering the lower portion of his face. With that and his hat – his usual plain black knit cap, Batman noticed, had gone on under the red one that marked him as a visitor to South Pole Station – on the teen had virtually no exposed skin, and looked like a very lost tropical bird. "Yeah," he answered, "so long as we don't fall into that giant gaping hole we saw as we flew over."

The transverse split had indeed been massive. It only stretched across forty percent or so of Shackleton's width, but by Batman's calculations that was still two miles at this point in the valley. He'd managed to land within a quarter mile of the edge, but a hike across a glacier was a very different thing than a hike on solid ground. For the first time twenty-four hour daylight seemed like a lucky break. "Just keep all the giant gaping holes you _can't_ see in mind," he advised as he tossed Robin the end of a rope. "I'll be probing as we go, but watch your step anyway. A glacier is dangerous at the best of times, let alone when it's moving faster than it should be."

"Sure. But Batman?"

They were ready to go, and he didn't want to delay. He could hardly walk away from his son's attempt to get his attention, however, so he paused halfway through an exploratory step away from the helicopter. "…Yes, Robin?"

"Look behind us."

They stood on a rise in the ice, and the view to the valley below was unobscured. The glacier enveloped entire mountains whose bare brown peaks had been cleared of snow by relentless winds. Those sterile pillars of earth were the only sign that they stood above land rather than water, and Batman took a mental snapshot of them.

"Isn't it amazing?" Robin sighed. "The white, then the brown, then the blue in the sky…you wouldn't think a place this beautiful could kill you. I know it can, and easily, but…you wouldn't think so just to look at it."

Batman blinked at him for a moment. Here he was being practical and thinking about finding their way back to the helicopter after they'd investigated the fissure, and Robin was busy appreciating the aesthetic and philosophical aspects of their surroundings. He was a little annoyed that the teen wasn't in full survival mode, but a greater part of him was glad that his son could find something to marvel at even in this lifeless terrain. "No," he agreed quietly. "You wouldn't." He let one more beat pass. "…Let's go, Robin. We have a lot to do still."

They navigated the glacier without incident. "Stay back here," Batman ordered as they approached the edge of the wide crack that crossed the glacier in the wrong direction. "If the edge gives out I may need you to stop my fall."

Robin's mouth tightened. "…Right. I can do that. But, uh…don't fall anyway, okay?"

"Mm." With that he lay down on the ice and pulled himself forward slowly. A few threatening creaks sounded, but the surface held. After a tense moment he was able to stare down into the heart of the glacier. There was no bottom, only blackness that ate his flashlight beam. Something about the sleek sides of the crevasse, fading as they did from their crest of blinding white into pale blue, cobalt, and midnight in turn, drew the eye downwards into the abyss. There were shadows in the depths, shadows so dark and penetrating that they could hide him forever. The mountains above and around him had shadows, too, but they were nothing compared to these. This neverending pit was the summer home of the long Antarctic night, the secret place to which the southern continent's inky winter blanket retreated when the sun charged in. He wondered what it would feel like to wrap that blanket around his shoulders…

"Hey, Batman!"

He jerked at the sound of his name being called. The spell of the crevasse broke, and he was able to scoot backwards. When he reached Robin he wiped relief off of his face and stood. "Yes?"

"Look there," the teen lifted a finger to point at something very much man-made sticking out of the ground nearby. "I just noticed it. It looks like part of an ice ax."

"That's exactly what it is." The tool was of modern manufacture based on its appearance, but that was no guarantee that it counted as a clue.

"What do you think? Maybe they dropped a package of explosives in that normal fissure up there," Robin pointed another hundred meters across the glacier to where a second long, scraggly opening intersected the one they'd been inspecting, "and someone forgot to grab their ax when they were done?"

"Maybe. But this is a popular research destination, too. Someone from a science team might easily have left it. We can't rely on it as belonging to the people we're looking for."

"Grr. Okay. Well, what about you? Did you find anything?"

"…No." There had been nothing to help them in the crevasse he'd peered into, no debris, no scorch marks, nothing. In a way that made sense, since the crystalline structure of the ice would have made it possible for a deep explosion to split it all the way to the surface without causing any damage outside of the blast site itself. Recalling what Robin had suggested about the next fissure over being the access point, he strode towards it. "Follow me."

There was no need to glance into the darkness to find what he was looking for this time. Crampons had indented the ice in dozens of places along the rim of the natural split. A smoothed-down half-circle suggested that a rope had been lowered over the side with something of considerable weight attached to the dangling edge. Batman plucked a few fluffy fibers from the notch and bared his teeth in a brief snarl of triumph. It wasn't much, but it was something, and that was more than they'd had before.

"…Nylon?" Robin asked when he'd been handed the evidence.

"Correct. As you proposed, something was dropped into that crevasse. I'm willing to bet that it was an explosive charge of some sort."

"So there must be others, too. Other cracks where they dropped explosives. I mean, this thing," Robin gestured to the transverse split, "wasn't caused by one explosion."

"No, you're right about that. I suspect that they placed numerous batches in crevasses straight across the glacier's face, or as straight across as they could manage. They must have crafted the bombs in such a way as to direct the bulk of the energy perpendicular to the glacier's direction of flow. Otherwise the cracks would have looked like standard fissures, if any even resulted. If they designed them as I said, though, and detonated them all at the same time…" He nodded to himself as the pieces of his theory fit together in his head. "That would work. That would result in what we're seeing here."

"Is that why it stops partway across the glacier? Did they place something wrong?"

"Possibly. Or they ran out of explosives, or decided that targeting the ice sheets so that more bergs broke loose was of greater importance than snapping glaciers in half. Regardless of what their reasoning was, these are people who have access to a great deal of bomb making materials." He sent Robin a serious look. "We need to proceed with caution."

"Proceed to where, though? All we know is that they were here a while ago setting explosives."

"…Mm." The other glacier that was cracked like Shackleton was several hours away, and had been broken weeks earlier. "We'll fly out towards the edge of the ice shelf. If the same people who did this have been causing extra calving at the sea's edge, we might be able to find something there to help us."

"They wouldn't have their base out on the shelf, though," Robin argued. "I mean, wouldn't they have been spotted by now if they did? And they'd be risking destroying their own camp whenever they blasted."

"The Ross Ice Shelf is over one hundred and eighty thousand square miles in size, Robin. They could camp very far away from their blast sites and put themselves at no risk. Relatively few planes fly over the shelf in any given year; a little white camouflage and being in the middle of a virtually untraveled nowhere could serve them very well. However, the base is what we need to find if we're going to stop them, and I tend to agree with you that it won't be out on the ice." He ran a few quick calculations in his head. "We'll skirt the western edge of the shelf on our return from the sea. The helicopter has enough fuel for us to make a loop and still get back to the plane."

"Excellent! Maybe we really _will_ see some penguins, huh? If we're near the sea?"

The excitement in his son's voice made Batman's mouth quirk upwards. "We might, Robin. We might."

* * *

"Aaaah! Penguins!"

The cry from the helicopter's passenger seat made Batman look over. After all of the flying he'd done today he was exhausted, and the headache building behind his eyes wasn't helping his mood. He suspected that the throbbing in his skull was the result of the glare coming off the continent. While the lenses of his mask did block out harmful amounts of light and UV radiation, he'd been staring down at ice and snow for hours now. At some point even the best filter wouldn't be capable of keeping his body from crying out at such abuse. Making things worse was the fact that they'd found nothing near where the ice shelf met the sea. To be fair they had walked along a minuscule percentage of the total area in which their villains might have worked, but statistics didn't get them any closer to success.

It was for those reasons that his response to Robin's joy was flat. "Mm."

"Batman! C'mon! It's _penguins_!" Robin hesitated. "Could we stop? I saw something once that said they'll let you walk right up to them."

"You've seen penguins up close before."

"Not in the wild! And not Emperor penguins, which are what those guys down there have to be. They're so big…" He plastered himself to the window once more. "Hey…wait a minute…"

"Robin," Batman ground out as he sensed another request to land and mingle pending. "At the rate we're going we won't make it home for New Years, let alone Christmas. We are not going to stop in the middle of a mission to pet penguins."

"But Batman-"

"Robin. _No_."

"But-"

" _Robin_."

"There's blood."

Those two words were so far from what Batman had expected to hear that for a moment silence reigned in the helicopter. "What did you say?" he asked finally.

"I said there's blood." Robin pulled himself away from the glass and turned to face him. "I know it's a long shot, but…what if the people we're looking for are hunting penguins for food?"

Batman glanced towards the beginnings of land, still some two miles away. It didn't seem like too far to go for fresh meat, not for people who were willing to fly all over the continent to plant bombs under glaciers. They were far from the water now, too; there was nothing here that could hurt a penguin other than man. "We'll land," he ruled. "But we're landing to check the blood, _not_ to play. Understood?"

"I know," Robin replied. His voice was tight, and Batman couldn't tell if the upset in his tone was due to the prohibition on frolicking or the prospect of finding an injured penguin. He didn't ask; if it was the former they could hash it out later, and if it was the latter they were about to take care of it. Wheeling the chopper around, he began to search for the blood his partner had spotted.

Finding it wasn't difficult, as the red splashes stood out against the white backdrop even from several hundred feet in the air. He set down a respectful distance from the birds milling about on the ice and shut the engine off. "Let's go."

The penguins seemed undisturbed by their presence as they followed the blood trail into their midst. "You'd think they'd be skittish if one of them had been hurt by people," Robin frowned as black-and-white bodies shuffled around them. "Wouldn't you?"

"I don't know. Plains bison were nearly wiped out, but they still walk up to cars and homes in areas where they've been re-introduced. It may take several generations of recent violence by humans to cause aversion in a species."

"…I guess that makes sense." A minute later he drew air in sharply. "Oh, no!"

The penguin they'd been tracking lay on the ground, unmoving, its beak jutting towards the sky and its shiny black eyes fixed open. Robin rushed forward, fell to his knees, and drew one hand across its sleek feathers. "This is _not_ okay, Batman."

"No. It isn't." Bending down, Batman rolled the carcass halfway over. "…And it was definitely killed by a human," he added as a bullet hole came into view. "This looks like something caused by a long gun. A 30.06, maybe, or a .357." He straightened. "There's no reason to bring a weapon of that caliber to Antarctica unless you're planning to use it offensively." His certainty that they were dealing with dangerous people grew. "They can't be far."

"There's a lot of blood," Robin observed. "It might have lain here injured for quite a while before it died."

"Yes, but it died recently. There's no frost on it."

"Hmm…"

A squawk to Robin's left drew both of their attention. There stood a puffy gray chick whose gaze traveled back and forth between Robin and its fellow colony member. "…Squuuawnk?"

"Batman. You don't think…?"

"I don't know, Robin." He hoped his suspicion was wrong. A dead penguin was bad enough without its death having created an orphan.

The chick answered their question about its parentage for them. Waddling forward, it nudged the slowly freezing corpse. "Squuawnk…"

"Poor baby," Robin murmured. "Batman-"

Before he could figure out a way to refuse to adopt a penguin without hurting his protege's feelings, a new voice sounded. "Squa-squawnk?"

The chick looked up, then shuffled back towards the milling wall of black and white that surrounded them. An adult separated itself from the group and came forward to greet it. "Squuuawnk!" cried the chick.

"Squan-squawnk," said the adult replied. It glanced towards its deceased partner, then let out a low, sad warble. "…Squawnk," it went on after a moment of quiet. Then it vanished back into the crowd, and the chick hustled along in its wake.

"At least it still has someone to take care of it," Batman said gently.

"Yeah," Robin sighed. A faint smile crossed his lips. "That's worth a lot." Giving the dead penguin one last pat, he stood up. His mouth hardened, and Batman recognized something of himself in the angry set of his son's jaw. "What will also be worth a lot will be the moment when we take down the...the…the _jerk_ ," he spat, "who did this."

The boy who had been overawed by the beauty of the mountains and made ecstatic by the prospect of penguins had vanished. In his place stood not quite the man he would be, but something in between, something driven and self-assured and dangerous to anyone who crossed him. It was a glimpse of the future, and it made Batman both shiver and beam with pride. "Then let's get on it, partner," he said. "We have bad men to catch."


	19. Christmas at World's End, Part 3

There were sled tracks in the ice beyond the huddle of birds. They were faint, and Batman only saw them because the sun hit the edge of the groove just right, but they were clear enough be followed. "They must have killed another one here," he deduced as he studied a small pool of frozen blood. A few broken feathers stuck up from the crimson glue, waving wildly every time a fresh gust of wind came. "They wouldn't have brought a sled unless they planned to carry something back with them, and I doubt they would have left empty-handed if they saw blood." If they'd shot two penguins, though, why hadn't they taken both of them? Why waste the kill, and potentially draw attention to their presence besides?

"We're walking, right?" Robin asked through the face mask he'd put back on after leaving the penguin corpse. "So they don't hear the chopper?"

"Yes." It would impossible to follow the sled path from the sky unless they flew dangerously close to the ground. "Are you ready?"

"Absolutely." With that, Robin strode off along the narrow traces in the ice.

Batman stayed close behind him, but he let his protege do the tracking. He suspected that Robin needed something to keep his mind off of the memory of that lonely penguin chick nudging its dead parent, and following their quarry towards the mountains was the only relief he had to offer.

They were far enough from the Pole that the sun dipped slightly towards the horizon in the late hours of the day. It wasn't enough of a difference to darken the sky in any significant way, but as they drew closer to land the shadows cast by the landscape became heavier. It was with profound relief that Batman stepped into semi-dusk. They still stuck out like sore thumbs, but at least it didn't hurt to look where he was stepping. These gentle shades weren't issuing a silent, deadly call to him, either, and that was good. He couldn't explain the allure the depths of that massive crevasse had held for him, but looking back on it now the experience disturbed him. He had no suicidal tendencies unless one counted vigilantism, but that mile-deep blanket of eternity had seemed so very inviting...

The end of the snow pulled him away from his thoughts. Looking up, he found Robin considering the mountain that now loomed above them. "...It's up there," the teen whispered. "In between those two tall spurs. See it?"

"It must be a cave," Batman observed when he'd found the dark nook that Robin was talking about. The double lines left by the sled's metal runners continued straight up the slope towards the opening, but Batman frowned. "There's no good place out here for a helicopter."

"It must be somewhere else. Maybe they walk to it?"

"Dangerous job, carrying explosive materials up and down a mountain."

"Yeah...I think we should check it out anyway, though. Even if these aren't our blowing-up-the-ice guys, they still killed a penguin. If that's not a crime, it should be."

"Okay. Lead the way."

It was only when they reached the mouth of the cave that Batman insisted on taking point. With no way of knowing whether they were about to encounter four people or forty, he didn't want Robin up front. The teen's lightweight armor could take a few bullets if it had to, but Batman's was far more likely to absorb a full fusillade if one came in response to their sudden appearance.

They advanced into the mountain without meeting anyone, however. The sled tracks had ended when the floor had turned to slickrock, but there were no branching tunnels to throw them off course. Several hundred meters in, when the light had long ago given out and they were relying on night vision to let them see without giving their approach away, Batman halted and threw his arm out to stop Robin, too. A faint whiff of something cooking crept into his nose. It was a fishy smell, but there was something close to chicken mixed in with it. Batman had never wanted to know what roasting penguin smelled like, but it was too late for that now.

Voices reached them, too, distant but clear. "The others have almost finished readying the chopper...damn it, Jenny, I told you to stop shooting the fucking penguins!"

"And I told you I wanted some fresh meat, Arlene! You said you would talk to your pilot lover or whatever he is, but I still haven't seen anything on my plate other than vegetables and rice! He didn't even bring the explosives last time he came out from Auckland, and the explosives are the whole point of being here. Today's batch is the last of our stuff, and I didn't come here to sit on my hands!"

"He couldn't get the stuff from his usual source! As for the meat...I tried, but Daniel's more militant than I am. He refuses to carry any animal product in his plane."

"But bombs are okay? Fucking weird-ass vegantarians..."

"It's _vegan_ , bright one."

"It's annoying as hell, is what it is."

"You-!"

"Whoa, hey," a third voice broke in. "Let's not get carried away here. Differences in menu aside, we've all got the same goal, right? Fighting amongst ourselves isn't going to get us anywhere. Arlene, Jenny needed some protein, but I'm sure she took all the proper precautions to make sure she didn't leave any evidence. Right, Jen?"

A beat passed. "...Yeah."

"That sounded _really_ convincing," Arlene scoffed.

"You try covering up blood on ice when there's no loose snow around!"

"If you wouldn't kill things it wouldn't be a problem!"

" _Chill_ , people!" said the third voice. "Look, Jenny, you only did one, right?"

"Yeah. I only killed the one."

"You fired twice!" Arlene accused. "I saw you reload when you came back. It didn't take two bullets to kill one little penguin."

"I _missed_ the first time, all right?! The wind gusted right as I pulled the trigger and knocked the shot off course! Jesus, a person wants a bit of meat on their plate at Christmastime, and this is what they have to put up with. If I wasn't as dedicated as you two are to our plan, Arlene, David, I'd leave right now. I really would."

"Nobody else on the team seems to have a problem with me, Jenny. Just you. Nobody else is whining for meat."

"Everybody else is a vegetarian, or a vegan, or whatever. They don't have the same needs as I do."

"Then why are you even here?" A ringing silence fell, broken only when Arlene spoke again. "...Why are you here, Jenny? You talked a big game when we were making all of our plans online, and then you got here and turned out to be a meat-eater. None of the rest of us can figure it out. What do you care about the destruction of the natural world? You're not like us, you're like the people who are out there ruining the planet. _Why are you here_?"

"...Yeah, Jenny," David asked slowly. "Why...why _are_ you here?"

"You see," Jenny said in a tone that suggested she was holding back a fair deal of rage, "this is the problem with you anti-meat people. You stop doing what our species has evolved to do, what set us above other animals in terms of intelligence, and your brains start to shrivel."

" _What_?!"

"Hear me out, Arlene," Jenny went on. "I care about this just as much as you do, like I said. First off, I care because I live on this planet, and I don't especially want to see it turn into a goddamn wasteland because the rest of society won't pull its head out of its ass. As we discussed when this was all still a pipe dream on the Internet, giving people a glimpse of the future is a good way to get them to figure themselves out. Second, I care because I'm a hunter. I never tried to hide that fact from any of you, by the way. You've seen my professional website, and my Facebook page, and all of that. _I kill things for a living,_ and you knew that going in. How could you expect me to be a vegetarian with that on my resume?

"As for why that matters, tell me this; how many big, dangerous animals are there going to be in a few decades at the rate things are going? I hunt man-eating tigers, rampaging elephants, and bothersome bears, and it's kind of hard to hunt things that are extinct. So here's the deal. I'm not here to be altruistic. I'm not here to save the world. I'm here to save my own ass, and to make sure I still have a livelihood in ten or twenty or thirty years. I'm a greedy, self-centered bitch, and that's why I can do what I do and live to tell about it. So Arlene, maybe you should take off your holier-than-thou tiara and learn to live with the most effective teammate you've got."

Batman turned to give Robin a signal that they were to advance slowly, but the teen wasn't there. Somehow his partner had slipped past him while he'd been focused on the conversation, and now stood several dozen feet ahead. "...Robin," he muttered into his radio. "What are you doing?"

"Teaching that penguin- and elephant-killer that birds can be just as dangerous as tigers and bears," Robin breathed back. Then he lobbed something into an area that Batman couldn't see, turned his back on it, and covered his ears with his hands.

The flash-bang made Batman's ears ring despite his distance from the detonation and the layers of rock between him and it. A thin layer of dust sifted down from the ceiling, but it wasn't enough to keep him from catching a glimpse of Robin as he dashed out of sight around the bend. Cursing under his breath, Batman followed.

Just around the curve in the corridor there was a turn of almost ninety degrees. Beyond that lay the narrow room from which the three voices they'd been listening to had come. A few battery-powered lanterns illuminated two camp beds, a red-hot kerosene space heater, and a couple of crates that had clearly been serving as stools. Above the beds hung a banner that read 'ICE – Individuals Caring for the Environment' in bright blue letters. The place looked more like an upscale hobo camp than a base of operations. If there had been explosives kept here at some point they were, as Jenny had said, all but gone now.

The flash-bang had bounced right into the middle of the space, but only two people lay stunned on the ground. One was clearly David, and judging from her distance from the low brazier on which a hunk of meat was beginning to burn the other was Arlene. Batman glanced at Robin, whose body language suggested that he, too, had identified the missing person. "I'll get her," the teen swore, and took off down the continuation of the tunnel at the far end of the chamber.

Batman moved to follow him, then stopped. David was stirring already, and there was no telling how far the tunnel would take him before he caught up. If he left these two here they might well recover and escape while he was busy elsewhere. He would just have to bind them now and hope that Robin wasn't throwing himself into more than he could handle alone. As soon as that was done he took off down the tunnel. There was no light once he'd left the glow of the chamber, and while he could run using night vision the alteration to his vision required him to slow down a little. It seemed forever before he saw a glimmer ahead. The light there was natural, not man-made, and he concluded that the cave ran all the way through the mountain. Sure enough, it opened onto a short shelf of rock that was just broad enough to support a small helicopter. A pile of crumpled white tarpaulins nearby explained how they'd been hiding the machine. From the air it would look like just another part of the snowfield that geography had allowed to build up on this side of the peak. It was only when the thing was uncovered for loading, as it was now, that it might be spotted from above.

There were three more people out here. The pistols beside them suggested that they had been aware of the intrusion into their camp before being knocked cold, and the scuffed snow told Batman that they had put up a fight. Somewhere along the line Robin's 'South Pole Station' hat had been knocked from his head. Bending down, Batman picked it up and pocketed it. The teen had done well to take down so many armed adults in such a small area without sending any of them over the edge, but he felt a growing unease despite that. Only one of the figures on the ground was female, and he couldn't imagine the voice he'd heard identified as Jenny coming out of her ballerina-thin body. If that was the case, though, where _was_ the huntress? More importantly, where was Robin?

A gunshot echoed from beyond the limit of the shelf on which he stood. Eyes narrowed, Batman flew to the precipice and looked down. After a sheer drop of ten feet or so the slope gentled to some forty-five degrees. Two desperate, slipping sets of tracks tangled with one another until a point halfway down where their creators were locked in battle. From Batman's distance it appeared as if Robin had lost the fight. There had been that shot fired a moment ago, after all, and while the red-and-black clad figure was still upright he was hunched over one knee in a position that denoted pain. As Jenny leveled her weapon at him once more, the wind carried her voice up the mountain. "You know, kid, someone should have told you that the most dangerous animal to hunt is man."

This wasn't Gotham; there was nothing in range for Batman to grapple onto and swing forward from. He vaulted over the edge and began sliding down the slope as fast as he could go instead, but he knew he wouldn't make it. What a fool he'd been to take his son from home, and at Christmas too! If he'd left Robin at home this wouldn't be happening. The sun, he noted distantly, had begun to swing upward again while they were in the cave. By his count that made it Christmas morning here, even if Gotham was still celebrating the Eve. Christmas Day, and rather than receiving a gift he was about to see the best one he'd ever been given taken away from him...

Then, in what Batman was certain was the last moment of his son's life, Robin moved. The hand that had been pinched between his torso and his bent leg – clutching, the older vigilante had morbidly imagined, some awful close-range gut shot – pulled free and swept around in a graceful arc. A Batarang flew from his fingers and connected with Jenny's, knocking her gun skyward. The pistol went off again as she screamed and fell backwards into the snow. Robin leaped forward and pinned her down just as Batman stumbled to stop close by. "You're right," the teen told his prisoner. "Man is the most dangerous animal. And that goes double when he's trying to protect penguins and elephants and other innocent people." With that he delivered a hard blow to her chin, and knocked Jenny out cold.

"...Are you all right?" Batman asked when his protege had regained his feet.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I was just faking her out. I figured that since she'd 'missed' the penguin we found maybe she'd believe she'd hit me when she hadn't. I guess it worked." He stared at the huntress for a moment. "You know something, Batman?"

"What's that, Robin?" he asked as his eyes devoured the teen's uninjured form with relief.

"At least she knows herself."

"...Explanation?"

"She kills penguins and elephants as her job, and she _likes_ it. That makes her a real...well. You heard what she called herself before. It makes her a real one of those."

Batman smirked and gestured his son forward into a brief but tight embrace. "Yes it does, Robin. Yes it does."

* * *

"...And since then we've been waiting for you to arrive," Batman wrapped up his recounting of the tale's basics to Major Isley. "The Justice League is aware of the need to find the Daniel person who was mentioned as the supplier for the group. We've uncovered many of ICE's online conversations, as well. It seems they all met on environmentalist sites, then migrated to a more private setting when their talk began to turn insurgent. Daniel appears to have connections to several criminal organizations – his sources, we believe, for the explosives – and to be a licensed pilot with access to large ski planes capable of making the trip back and forth from New Zealand to Antarctica.

"All of the evidence suggests that Daniel was flying the group around to different pre-established bases as well as resupplying them. The helicopter I saw couldn't have carried them to the places that were targeted on the other side of the continent; they had to have something set up closer to those areas in order to operate. The money for all of this appears to have come from Arlene Corliss' own pocket."

"Arlene Corliss?" Isley's eyes went wide. "Not the daughter of Jack Corliss, owner of Corliss Oil and Gas Systems?"

"The same."

"Oh, _shit_. That's...that's going to make some waves. The only child of Jack Corliss in front of the International Criminal Court...wow. But I have to ask...how did they know what to do? How did they plan this? Arlene Corliss is no glaciologist."

"No. From what we've found out it looks like none of the people involved have any real background in science. But they didn't need it." Batman pulled out the same jump drive Superman had given him a few days before and pushed it across the table to Major Isley. "Everything we've uncovered is on there, but the essentials are these: Jenny Syverston is a former soldier who specialized in EOD. After she was discharged she got a contract with a company that specializes in destroying exotic problem animals. She appears to have been the group's bomb-builder. David Wu was their information man. He might not have a research background, but he knows how to learn things from the Internet. He fed the group what he found out about ice structures, energy transmission, and so on, and together they pieced together their plan. It was slapdash science at best, but it worked fairly well."

"...And the others?"

"Nameless so far. They refuse to talk, and their fingerprints aren't in any justice system we have access to."

Isley shook his head. "It's amazing. And you and Robin took them down...that's amazing, too."

"Robin took them down," Batman corrected him. He, on the other hand, seemed to have gone along solely to fly the helicopter. He didn't mind that, although he'd never confess it to Isley. It meant his son could survive and triumph on his own, and he refused to be bitter about something so wonderful as that. "And now we're leaving," he said as he stood up.

"I don't blame you," Isley nodded. "I'd give just about anything to be home with my own kids today. I know how you feel."

Batman remembered the hard look Robin had worn as he'd stood up from the bloodied ice around the murdered penguin parent. Everything he'd always known his son could be had shone forth in that moment, and Robin's actions in the cave had further proven that those long-carried hopes had not been unfounded. Putting Christmas aside, the man before him couldn't possibly know the same sort of unbearable pride, not unless he, too, was a secret superhero with an extremely promising protege. The man before him couldn't possibly love his children so much, even though they shared his DNA. "...No, Isley," he said as he turned away. "You really don't."

Robin fell into step beside him as soon as he entered the hall. "The Major's men came and took the ICE guys," he reported. "...That was a really mean thing you said just now, you know."

"It was the truth."

"Still. It was mean. And on Christmas, too." The teen grinned. "What would Agent A say?"

"He would understand." Alfred wouldn't let the rudeness slide, but the sentiment would make sense to him. "But we'll never know for certain unless we get back on the plane and go home."

"Oh...about that..."

Batman stopped and turned to face Robin. "'About that'?"

"Well...I was talking to Gary again, you know, after the prisoners were taken care of. He said there's this thing they do here on Christmas Day, and it sounded really cool, so I thought maybe _we_ could...you know...participate."

"We're already barely going to be home before the day is over." If they left now he could still salvage _something_ of a Christmas with his son, but another delay really would make that impossible.

"I know, but they run around the South Pole and back to the Station. You can run around the entire world in just a few minutes. Think about it, Batman; it's like having Christmas with the whole planet! How cool is that?"

"Robin-" Batman stopped. It was Christmas in more places than Gotham, and that included here. Hadn't he had that exact thought when he'd been sliding down a mountain and fearing that he was about to see the inside of Robin's skull? It was Christmas here, and now, and Robin was still with him. He'd already refused to let him have a full tour of South Pole Station and to do more with penguins than mourn a dead one; now that the mission was over, what point was there in denying him something else? Why chase a Christmas that couldn't be when there was one waiting at his feet in this very moment? "...You want to run around the South Pole for Christmas?"

"Yeah! And I want you to run with me. Please? It'll be so much fun, and hardly anybody can say they've run all the way around the world. Right?"

Batman sighed. "Okay, partner. Show me where the start line is."

Gary smiled as they approached the entrance to the Station. There was a small crowd gathered there, but they parted for Batman and Robin. "Made it just in time! You both ready?"

Robin grinned. "We're ready."

"Running together?"

"Yep!"

"Okay. So, you follow the signs out to the pole – and yes, there is an actual pole there – then you loop around and come on back. A few other folks already went, but I'll start a new timer for you. Alright? Then on your marks...get set...go!"

They ran out into the breath-stealing cold. For the first few seconds Batman felt ridiculous. Here he was, a symbol of secrets and mystery, running a footrace in broad daylight before a group of strangers. Then Robin cackled joyfully and pulled ahead of him. "Race you to the South Pole! Winner gets to open the first present under the tree when we get home!"

All of his awkwardness vanished. Having fun and being with someone you cared about... _this_ was what Christmas was about. Batman pushed himself to catch up, and got a surprise; he couldn't. No matter how he stretched his limits, Robin stayed one step ahead. They rounded the pole and started back towards the Station, and the gap remained between them. It wasn't huge, but it was there. Robin was ahead. Robin was beating him. He was losing a footrace to his son, and it wasn't for lack of trying.

But as they dashed back into the warm Station to a bevy of cheers and congratulations, he realized that it didn't matter. In fact, it made him happy. This Christmas Robin had demonstrated that he could be, would be, better than Batman. If there was a greater gift in the world than that, he couldn't imagine what it was.

"Here," he said, trying to hide his panting as he reached into his utility belt. Out came the red knit cap that had been dropped in the midst of the battle on the mountain, and Batman smirked as he shoved it down atop Robin's head. "To the victor, the spoils."

Robin beamed. "Merry Christmas, Batman."

"Merry Christmas to you too, Robin."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Whew! That was way more words than I thought it would be, but I hope you enjoyed it. They really do have a run around the South Pole on Christmas Day at South Pole Station, and that was the inspiration for this story. I just got a little carried away, LOL.**

 **See you back here tomorrow for a new Christmas story!**


	20. The Christmas Eve Club

**Author's Note: Guest reader Batman Is Life requested a Christmas story with just Bruce and Tim. This is set during the second Christmas after Bruce's return from being 'dead,' because I can't imagine Clark pulling any of the boys away from home during their first Christmas back together. Tomorrow will be another story with Tim, but from Damian's POV. Happy reading!**

* * *

It was Christmas Eve, and they were alone. "The house is quiet," Tim observed as he set down his knife and fork.

"It is," Bruce nodded. "...If it wasn't the holidays I don't think I'd mind it."

"Yeah...funny that Dick took Damian with him on a JLA mission. I thought he'd been leaving that sort of thing to you ever since he went back to being Nightwing."

"He has been. But he said Damian's been acting like he needs a change of pace. I hadn't noticed it myself, but you know Dick. He has a knack for knowing something's wrong with you even before you do."

"True." Tim wished the last-minute off-world emergency that had pulled his siblings away from home had happened at any other time of year. Christmas felt flat without Dick around to be excited about everything the season had to offer. As for Damian, while it was nice to know that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of any nasty comments or dirty looks tonight Tim almost missed that little shit, too. He knew Bruce and Dick too well to be surprised by them in conversation, but there was never any telling what would come out of Damian's mouth. For all that their verbal sparring often took a cruel and under-handed turn, it challenged Tim in a way that facing off with anybody else couldn't replicate.

Bruce sighed and tapped one finger idly against the tabletop. His gaze settled somewhere over Tim's shoulder, and for a moment his brow creased as if he was seeing something distant but unpleasant. Then he shook his head and gave a little grunt. "Well, there's no reason why the house has to stay quite this quiet. Why don't we go into the living room and put on some music?"

A post-dinner family gathering before the Christmas tree was usually Dick's suggestion, not Bruce's, but Tim saw no reason to object. "Sure. Sounds good to me."

Alfred already had a fire burning for them, and the tree was lit up in all of its majesty. Bruce hummed when they came into view of it. "Don't tell them I said this, but I think Dick and Alfred went overboard with that thing this year."

"Right? It's too perfect." Equally spaced cascades of red velvet ribbon ran from the tree's apex to the end of its lowest boughs. The crimson trails were punctuated by silver bows, and the greenery between each vertical line glittered with plain gold ornaments. Simple white lights had been pushed so far back that the tree seemed to glow from within. The Christmas trees of his youth had been like that, all curated things that his parents had paid to have professionally decorated. They were beautiful, to be sure, but Tim thought they lacked character. "Maybe next year we should tell them all they can use are dough ornaments and silly string."

Bruce's mouth quirked. "Alfred would have a conniption fit."

"But Dick would go for it."

"True. And Damian might even join in if we let him use some of the silly string."

"Note to self; wear a face mask for tree decorating next year."

"We'll make a rule about spraying each other rather than the tree."

"Which he will promptly break, because Damian."

"Well...maybe. He seems to be maturing a little of late."

While that was true – Tim couldn't remember the last time he'd found a mousetrap in his sock drawer – there were some things that never changed. Damian might not be trying to snap his fingers anymore, but that didn't mean he'd waste an opportunity to give him a face full of foam. "Eh. I guess we'll see next year."

"Mm." Bruce gave him a long, considering look that Tim couldn't read. Then he pointed his chin towards two heavy leather chairs. "Why don't you move those over by the fire while I take care of the music and pour a drink?"

"Okay." As he pushed the seats into position it occurred to Tim that he and Bruce were the only ones who ever used them. Dick preferred to stretch his legs out on one of the couches when he was in this room; Damian was in the habit of occupying the space beyond Dick's feet, as if he was trying to make sure no one else could get closer to the man than he was; and Alfred, ever the proper butler, tended to remain standing. Tim and Bruce preferred to cocoon themselves in deep, warm leather, to put their feet up before the fire, splay their hands on the armrests, and consider the world from a comfortable height. The realization made Tim feel warm, and he settled into his chair with a smile on his face.

Sometime during his labors soft jazz had begun to waft through the room. He had just leaned his head back and closed his eyes to enjoy it when Bruce's voice sounded at his elbow. "Here."

Tim peeked out from beneath his eyelids to find a cut crystal tumbler containing deep amber liquid being offered to him. It was Dick and Bruce's tradition to share a glass of whiskey on Christmas Eve, and he wondered if Bruce had poured two servings out of habit. "You do remember that I'm not of legal age, right?"

"Twenty's close enough. Call it an early Christmas present."

"I've never...I mean, how strong is it?" Dick had told him about the slow trip through progressively peatier whiskeys that Bruce had spent the last several years taking him on. Tim knew that the billionaire's preferred beverage was one of the most deeply flavored varieties in existence; if Dick, who had experience drinking, wasn't ready for that level yet, Tim knew he wouldn't be.

"It's not. Not to me, at least. It's the same thing I started Dick on."

"Oh!" So Bruce had meant for him to drink tonight, after all. "Well, he survived, so...sure. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Make sure you sip it, especially at first. It's not milk."

Tim sniffed the contents of his glass as if it were a potentially noxious chemical. "Yeah, that would be some potent milk."

Bruce chuckled. "Yes it would be."

When there was a slightly smoky aftertaste on his tongue and a not-so-terrible burning in his throat, Tim spoke again. "So...why now?"

"Why now what?"

"The whiskey. You didn't start Dick early. He told me he was twenty-one the Christmas you first gave him a drink."

A brief grimace passed over the billionaire's face. "I didn't get a chance to start Dick early. He was in Bludhaven the year I would have given him his first glass."

"...Oh."

"That aside, though, this just seemed like an ideal moment to bring you into the club. Damian's not here to glare over not being allowed any, for one, and like I said you're old enough in my book. It would have been nice if Dick could have been part of it, but...well, he'll forgive me for taking advantage of the situation."

"Yeah..." He let a little more liquid pass his lips. It wasn't bad, but he could tell that it was an acquired taste. "So, those evenings when you and Dick lock yourselves up in your study and 'talk business'...is this what you're actually doing? Drinking?"

This time Bruce let out a real laugh. "Yes," he confessed. "It is. We _do_ discuss work, but we also drink whiskey." A beat passed. "If you ever want to join us, you know, there's no reason why you can't. I can pour you different things until you catch up to him."

"What makes you think I'll catch up to him before his palate can handle what yours can?"

"Because you didn't choke on your first sip the way he did."

"...He _choked_?"

"Yes, he did. Not down-the-wrong-pipe kind of choking, but he definitely didn't handle it as well as you did."

"Huh. I wonder why?"

"Mm...your brother is more of a wine person. He and Alfred spend a lot of time on that, you know. In fact," one of the billionaire's eyebrows arched, "I have my suspicions about just how early Alfred started allowing Dick to sample what he was planning to pour for banquets and balls. I'm reasonably certain that it was around Damian's age."

"Alfred, corrupting a minor?" Tim joked. "No way."

"Don't get me wrong, I never found Dick drunk or anything like that. But I'm confident enough in my belief that I'd use it as a defense if Alfred was to come in here tonight and say anything about you drinking whiskey at twenty."

"He'd have an excuse. You know he'd say it was educational, or something a young gentleman ought to know, or something like that."

"Sure he would. And I'd make the same argument for whiskey. The point is, Dick only kept drinking whiskey and trying to come around to liking it because he wanted to share those sorts of moments with me. I know that because he told me as much. But I don't think you're going to have to try as hard as he did to advance through the ranks, and that's kind of nice. Anyway, as I said before you can join us when we're drinking, if you want to. Just know that you might be bored when we talk business."

"I don't know if I would be, to be honest. I mean...I have to do something with the degrees I'm earning, don't I?"

Bruce glanced sideways at him. "I thought you might have your eyes set on something higher than a position at Wayne Enterprises," he said quietly.

Tim snorted. "Yeah, because WE is such a small company that it has no influence at the national and international levels. I know what you meant," he added before Bruce felt the need to defend himself. "And sure, it would be kind of neat to do stuff with one of the big software firms, or to start one of my own. But all those companies are headquartered on the West Coast, and start-ups seem to require a lot of long hours and sleepless nights. I've done my time away from Gotham," he shrugged, "and I'm not interested in doing more of it. As for my nights, those are already filled by something way more important than the next Facebook or whatever. I _do_ want to do tech work, but...I don't see any reason why I can't do it for you."

They had never talked so seriously about this topic before, and in the flickering firelight Tim thought he saw tears in Bruce's eyes. Then the billionaire blinked, and the dampness was gone. Only the extra huskiness that came through when he spoke gave away his happiness. "Well, if that's what you want, Tim, I'm hardly going to be the one to object."

"Not even if you wanted to?"

Bruce shook his head. "Not even if I wanted to. I learned that lesson already. If you're old enough to drink, you're more than old enough to make decisions about your own life. But if you're planning to develop software for WE, I'd better increase the size of the accounting department again. We're going to need extra money handlers."

"Wait...what do you mean, 'again'?"

"Well, you know what Dick does for me."

"He's your contracts wizard."

"Right. Shortly after he came on, our profits skyrocketed and I had to hire a couple more accountants. I always thought of myself as a hard bargainer, and I used to get some damn good deals, but Dick...Dick has revived negotiations that I thought were dead in the water. He's gotten people to agree to things that would have ended in my being laughed out of the conference room. And people are happy to do sign the line under those things. When he's the one asking, they'll practically sign their firstborn children away."

"Good thing he's on our side," Tim said only half in jest.

"Yes. For all that we're making more money than ever off of his negotiating skills, I think we're a more moral company now than we were when I was still the last stop for compromise on contracts."

"It's nice to know that moral companies can still make a lot of money. Hell, it's nice to know that moral companies still _exist_. They seem to be fewer and fewer these days." Tim lifted his glass to his lips again, and was surprised to find that it was empty. "...Oops."

"Heh. I told you you were more of a whiskey man than Dick. It took him until bedtime to finish his first drink." Bruce drained his own tumbler and stood up. "Have another?"

"If I do, can we complain about moral turpitude and line out grandiose plans for turning Wayne Enterprises into an utterly unimpeachable corporate role model?"

Bruce smirked. "You're tipsy."

"It's your fault. And I'd kind of like to keep it going. You know," he said, suddenly shy. "...If you want to."

The smirk turned into a smile. "I'd like that, son. I'd like that a lot."


	21. Winter Wonderland

**Author's Note: Happy solstice, all! Here is the promised Tim and Damian story from Damian's perspective. Tomorrow we'll have some fun with a polar bear plunge and a few special guests. Happy reading!**

* * *

"Master Damian!"

Damian glared at the closed door of his bedroom, through which Alfred's call had penetrated. The butler had been in half a tizzy for the past two days as he rushed to prepare everything for tonight's Christmas Ball, and Damian had stayed out of sight as much as he could. Getting in the way before a big event tended to result in being either told off or conscripted into helping, and neither sounded like fun.

He knew better than to ignore a direct summons, though. Rolling his eyes, he walked to the door and stuck his head into the hallway. "What?"

Alfred stood a short distance down the corridor near where Drake was leaning out of his own chamber. "Ah, very good. If you'll both follow me, please. I require your assistance."

"This can't be good," Tim muttered as they fell in line behind the butler, who was walking everywhere in double-time today.

Damian privately agreed, but he wasn't going to let Drake know that. "How would you know?"

"...Ugh."

They traipsed down a back staircase and into one of the several storage and prep areas that let off of the mansion's grand ballroom. The room was full of props and paints and other creative materials, and Damian felt his stomach sink. "What's this about?"

"This is about people who can't keep to a bloody contract," Alfred griped. Realizing what had just come out of his mouth, he grew shame-faced. "Please forgive my language, boys. You've done nothing wrong. It's only that the company I arranged to come in and decorate for the event tonight have suddenly backed out. We've used their services for twenty years," his voice harshened again, "and this is the consideration they show. It's unconscionable.

"Fortunately they had already prepared and delivered the backdrops, and the laborers I hired to place the tables and other furniture have agreed to position those when they come later this afternoon. But none of the smaller pieces – the ceiling décor, the table centerpieces, and so on – are coming. We're on our own for those, and if we don't come up with something in the next few hours the ballroom is going to look half-dressed. As _delightful_ as it would be to spread the word to all of Gotham's social elite that Higgins' Event Magicians can't be trusted to fulfill their agreements, I'll not risk the Christmas Ball's reputation in order to do it.

So," he rubbed his hands together, "that leaves me with no choice but to delegate. I haven't time to come up with a solution for the decorations, let alone to actually make them. That is where the two of you come in."

Damian crossed his arms. "This sounds like a project for Grayson. Why wasn't _he_ roped into this?"

"Because Master Dick came to me after breakfast this morning and asked if I could give him something to flatten a fever in short order. He is currently passed out in bed trying to feel better in time for the event tonight. You are _not_ to bother him unless the house catches fire and he is in immediate danger of burning. Do you understand?"

Damian grimaced. He'd thought Dick seemed a little out of sorts at breakfast, but he'd chosen to chalk it up to a lack of excitement for the social obligation they would all be sharing in this evening. "...So it's us or nobody."

"That is a correct assessment, Master Damian. Now I know you two don't always see eye to eye, but I would consider it a personal favor if you did your best to work together on this. The theme, as you know, is Winter Wonderland. I don't care how you interpret that so long as it isn't lewd, it comes out looking decent, and it's done by six o'clock. All right?"

"Okay," Drake agreed. "We'll, ah…we'll do what we can. Right, Damian?"

"…Right," Damian muttered.

"Very good. I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck."

When Alfred had gone, Tim and Damian looked at one another. "I guess we should get started," Tim said.

"How? We don't know what we're doing!"

"Well, we _sort_ of do. We just have to stick to the theme and come up with something that we can make fast."

"Like what?"

"Like…" Tim's shoulders slumped. "I don't know."

Damian threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Didn't your parents used to throw things like this? You should know what to do!"

"They always hired decorators, just like Alfred usually does." A beat passed. "…Maybe we should go take a look at the backdrops. That might give us some ideas."

Seeing no other options open to them, Damian followed Tim into the ballroom. Leaning against one wall were dozens of six-foot tall canvases, all of them painted in frosty blues and stunning whites. "Okay," Tim said as he slid them carefully apart. "We've got kids sledding, carolers, some snow-covered houses…"

"Here's a snowman," Damian volunteered as he peeked at a few of the paintings. "And people ice-skating."

"So…winter wonderland stuff."

"Yeah." Damian let the canvas he'd been examining fall back into place. "Really helpful."

"It was worth a try," Tim sighed. "Let's see…Alfred specifically said that the ceiling and the table tops were missing. We just need something that works for both of those."

Several minutes passed in silence as they both thought. Damian began to pace the room, staring up at the ceiling all the while. Above him and in the other wing of the house was Dick, whom they really needed if they were going to pull this off successfully. If Dick had been down here with them they'd already be hard at work on some kitschy but Alfred-acceptable idea. Left to their own devices, though, he and Tim were helpless.

Then, suddenly, it hit him. "Drake!"

"Gaah, what?!"

"I've got it!" He pointed skyward. "Snowflakes!"

"…Snowflakes?"

"Yes!" A week earlier Damian had found Grayson cutting out paper ornaments for the miniature tree he put up in his room each year. Dick had shown him how to fold and cut paper so that a delicate, lacy snowflake fell from each piece, and while Damian had been lukewarm on the project at the time it now seemed like the perfect solution. "We can attach them to strings and hang them from the ceiling so it looks like it's snowing. That's 'Winter Wonderland'-ish, isn't it?"

"It is," Drake nodded slowly. "And it's something we could do in bulk, and fast. We can probably get the lighting guys to hang the strings, since they have to go up to the ceiling anyway. Or…" His eyes widened. "What if we put the snowflakes on strings of white Christmas lights? Then they'd be lit up, and the whole ceiling would have kind of a soft look to it."

"Do we have enough lights for that?"

"Oh, yeah. The Christmas before you came along Dick had the crazy idea of making the Manor look like the Griswold house from 'National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.' I only talked him into turning the things off at night by telling him I couldn't sleep with all that light coming through the curtains. They're up in the attic somewhere."

"Okay. So you go get those, and I'll go back into that room from before and find stuff for snowflakes."

"Wait. What are we going to do about the tables?"

"I don't know! I took care of the ceiling, so why don't _you_ come up with something?"

"Okay! Okay. Jeez. I was just asking…"

When Drake had departed Damian made his way back into the chamber where Alfred had briefed them. A short search turned up a variety of scissors collected in an old fish bowl as well as a pile of colorful papers. At the bottom of the stack he found a ream of thick white cardstock covered with silver and gold foil swirls. Armed with that and his arsenal of scissors, he moved back into the ballroom, sat down in the middle of the floor, and fell to work.

He didn't look up until the squeak of cart wheels caught his attention. Drake pushed his load of boxes up to where Damian had established himself and then stepped back, panting slightly. "You wouldn't think a bunch of wires and twinkle lights could be so heavy."

"Maybe you're just a weakling," Damian retorted absent-mindedly as he turned back to his snowflake.

Tim snorted and sat down across from him. "Yeah, I'm sure that's it. Hand me some scissors, would you?"

Damian nudged the fishbowl towards him with one foot. "Hand them to yourself."

"I'm amazed you didn't take the opportunity to try and stab me with a pair."

"If I'd stabbed you then you'd have an excuse not to work."

"Oh, well, nice to know you care."

"I'm not cutting out five hundred snowflakes by myself, Drake. Get to work."

They were silent for quite a while after that. Damian had been mildly annoyed by the repetitive folding and cutting process when he'd first tried it the previous weekend – perhaps, he reflected, because Dick's snowflakes had been so much prettier than his – but now it soothed him. His hand began to ache, but he pressed on. This, he was certain, was exactly the sort of thing Grayson would have come up with. If he managed to get out of bed to see it, he'd love it.

"…I'm going to start stringing these onto the lights," Drake said eventually.

"Mmkay." He was working on an especially detailed flake, and any distractions might destroy his precision. When he unfolded it a minute later, he was impressed. "Nice," he hissed to himself. It wasn't quite Dick-level, but it was pretty good.

"That can't go up on the ceiling," Tim announced.

Damian immediately saw red. "What do you mean it can't? It's better than anything you did!"

"That's the _point_ , smart one. If you'd take half a second to think before you flew off the handle at everything I say to you maybe you'd realize that I'm trying to give you a compliment. It can't go on the ceiling because it's too good for up there. No one would be able to see it clearly."

"…Oh." For some reason the praise made him feel good despite the fact that it was Drake who had given it out. "What am I supposed to do with it then?"

"What if we used it for the tables?"

"How?"

"The tablecloths for tonight are dark blue. I saw Alfred picking them out. But we have glass covers that can go on top of the cloths; what if we put the snowflakes under those so that they can be seen but not moved? Then maybe we can put some of the extra strings of lights in a vase or something for a centerpiece."

"How will they light up, though?"

"I'll rig something with a battery pack. One nine-volt for each string should be enough for the evening. You keep cutting out snowflakes for the tables; I think we have enough for the ceiling already. I'll get with these guys," he gestured towards the lighting crew that was maneuvering its mechanical lift through the double doors at the far end of the room, "and then check with Alfred on what time the linen rental company will be here to set up the tables."

Normally Damian would have objected to Tim's managerial attitude, but since he didn't really want to do anything other than cut more paper he let it go. "Fine. But Drake?"

"What?"

"…Don't let the lighting people tear any of my snowflakes."

Tim smirked. "Relax. Some of them are mine, too, remember?"

"Yeah, well…"

The rest of the day flew by. By the time Damian had run out of paper to cut the lighting crew had half of their snowflake-bearing strings hung from the ceiling. The linen company's employees had arrived as well, and were busy setting up the round tables that Alfred had deemed appropriate for tonight's event. Drake showed them where the glass table-toppers were and explained what they wanted done with the snowflakes, then flagged Damian down. "Help me with the centerpieces. We're running out of time."

"You're kidding, right? Look at my hands!" His eagerness to create as many snowflakes as possible had caused him to push through the pain of several hours of scissor use, and now there were blisters forming in the uncallused valleys between his fingers. Wanting to make his point as clear as possible, he shoved them forward into Drake's face.

Tim winced. "Well, shit. Ah…Okay. I was going to have you cut the plug off and strip the ends for me, but you can't hold the wire-cutters like that. Do you think you can manage to connect the wires to the battery packs?"

"I'm not an idiot. I know how to attach a battery pack." Twisting the sharp, tiny ends together and wrapping them in tape wouldn't feel good, but using the wire cutters would be far worse.

"Okay, then let's get going. Alfred's going to be down here wanting us to change soon."

"Ugh. Stupid tuxedos…"

They could hear the ongoing work in the ballroom as they raced to complete their centerpieces. "We're lucky Alfred keeps ridiculous amounts of matching glass vases on hand," Tim remarked as they shoved strings of lights into two dozen identical vessels. "I like the way the bottoms of them are frosted."

"They're acceptable, I suppose."

"Liar," Tim accused with a hint of jest.

"…Shut up, Drake," Damian rebutted, but he couldn't quite keep a smirk off of his face. He might not have wanted to admit it, but Drake's idea had been a good one. The focal points for each table were coming together nicely, and he could imagine what they would look like in the low light of the ballroom later tonight. He only hoped that his snowflakes showed up as well from their places in the air.

When they were done, Damian made to grab two of the centerpieces and carry them out into the ballroom. Most of the noise on the other side of the wall had stopped a short while before, and he couldn't wait to see how his contribution to the project compared to Drake's. "Let's go."

"Hold on."

Damian narrowed his eyes as Tim crossed to the first aid kit mounted on one wall. "What are you doing?"

"You can't go around all night with blisters on your fingers. It's gross, and Alfred will have a fit if one pops midway through the night or something. So hold out your hands."

"I can dress my own wounds, Drake."

"Oh, okay then. Here you go." Tim held out a stack of wrapped bandages. "Have fun."

Damian stared at him for a moment. Part of him was tempted to take the Band-aids and struggle through things himself just to prove his point. It would take forever, though, and the result would be a fair bit messier than if he let Drake do it for him. "Fine," he gave in grudgingly. "You do it."

"No need to thank me. You're _so_ welcome," Tim drawled as he applied the first bandage.

"Just hurry up, would you?"

"You guys," a raspy voice spoke from the doorway without warning, "are amazing."

Damian looked over his shoulder and found Grayson shuffling forward in pajamas and a bathrobe. His heart sank. "You're not coming to the ball, are you?"

"Nope. It looks like not even Alfred's best efforts were enough to banish this flu, so I wouldn't be a very good co-host tonight. But he told me about your project, and I wanted to come see for myself."

"How's it look out there?" Tim inquired.

"I don't know. I came in here first. Haven't you seen it?"

"Not completed, no. We've been in here for the last hour."

"And now you're bandaging Dami's poor mangled fingers." Dick clapped his hands and gave a weary smile. "I love it."

"Well, I'm done now," Tim said as he released Damian's hand. "So let's go see our handiwork."

"Wait!" Damian cried out. "…Let's put the centerpieces out there before Grayson looks. Since he's not going to get to see it later, he might as well see it all the way done now."

"I like that idea," Dick announced as he dropped into a folding chair. "You guys do that, and I'll sit here and try to stop seeing everything double."

"Riiiight," Tim drew out. "You're helping me get him back up the stairs when we're done with this," he whispered to Damian as they carried a load of vases out into the vast chamber beyond.

"I know." He was only half-listening, though. Above him the silver and gold foil on his snowflakes were catching the light from the twinkling Christmas strands to which they were attached, giving the illusion that it was actually precipitating in the ballroom. The ceiling had been left dark other than that, but the recessed downlights turned to half-power along the edges of the dance floor provided just enough additional brightness for him to see the details on the tabletops. The flakes caught underneath the glass had been arranged in a circular pattern that would draw the eye straight to the centerpieces, and as he put the first one in place Damian smiled. In the varying light from the vases the paper on the table was a match for the paper overhead. It was, in short, perfect.

"…This looks good," Tim said when they reconvened after the last tables were set. "This looks _really_ good."

"It's lovely, young sirs," Alfred said from behind them. "Much lovelier, I'm ashamed to say, than I expected. I seem to have underestimated your talent for decorating."

"And their usually hidden talent for working together," Dick croaked beside him. "It's a real Winter Wonderland in here, thanks to you two. I wish I was going to be down here to overhear all of the amazing compliments your work is going to get tonight." The beaming grin he was already wearing grew wider. "I think I recognize some of those snowflakes."

"Those were Damian's idea," Tim shared. "He got the ball rolling. I cut a few out, but they're mostly his."

"The centerpieces are well done, also," Alfred remarked. "Simple, but very elegant."

"Were those yours?" Dick asked Tim.

"Yeah. Damian helped me do the battery packs, though. I wouldn't have gotten through all of them in time if he hadn't."

"How wonderful," said Alfred. "It's a masterpiece, honestly, young sirs. I'd almost term it a Christmas miracle. I couldn't have done better myself, and certainly not in the limited time you had to work with. Higgins' Event Magicians," his tone soured, "couldn't even have come close."

"I'd hug you both in congratulations, but I don't think you want what I've got," Dick told them. "Even so, this is amazing. My little brothers did a killer job. And without killing each other in the process, too!"

"There's a Christmas miracle for you," Damian snorted.

Tim nudged him. "Was it, though?" he asked only half in jest. "Was it _really_ that hard to work with me for a few hours without being a complete snot?"

It hadn't been, in retrospect, but if he admitted as much now he'd never live it down. He turned his head away before he answered, trying to hide the smirk that was back on his face without permission. He knew he'd failed when they others began to chuckle, but he nudged Tim back anyway – a little harder, perhaps, than was strictly necessary, but not as roughly as he once would have – and went ahead with his standard retort. "…Shut up, Drake."


	22. The Plunge

**Author's Note: This is a fun little piece featuring Bruce, young Dick, a few JLA friends, and a Polar Bear Plunge. For those of you who don't know, some places in cold zones host events where people jump into very cold lakes, rivers, etc. in the dead of winter in their bathing suits or other scanty apparel for charity. It's the sort of thing I could never see Bruce volunteering for, but _could_ see him getting roped into in some other way.**

 **I usually intend these Christmas pieces to be stand-alones, but this story just feels like it belongs in the 'Spark in the Dark' universe. It will fall between 'Sick Day' and 'Hope' in the chronology. So, for all of you Sparklers out there, here's a little something extra this Christmas. :)**

* * *

If Bruce Wayne could have been anywhere other than on the banks of the Gotham River today, he would have been ecstatic. Even if the booths lining the edge of the pier had just been for a regular Christmas carnival, he'd have been happy. If it came down to it he'd be willing to accept the idea of this afternoon's first annual Wayne Foundation Polar Bear Plunge, so long as he didn't have to participate.

But his fate had been sealed three months earlier when Carlie Jefferson, the head of public fundraising for the Foundation, had called him at his office. He'd been spectacularly busy with end-of-quarter reports, and had only been half listening when she asked him if he'd be willing to headline a new holiday event this year. With his mind focused on reconciling numbers between departments – some of Wayne Enterprises subsidiaries were being benefited by the sudden decline in global oil prices, while others were feeling a major pinch – he had agreed without asking what his participation would entail.

It wasn't until several weeks later when Alfred approached him with a handbill and a smirk that Bruce realized what he'd signed up for. ' _Gotham's most eligible bachelor is taking the plunge for charity_ ,' the ad read. Below that headline was an illustration of a simpering muscle-man in a Speedo on the edge of a body of water, followed by ' _Will you join him?'._

He'd been on the phone to Carlie immediately. "People _love_ it," she reported before he had a chance to say anything. "You don't have to worry about your entry fee, either. I just put those handbills out yesterday, and I've already had no less than ten people call and volunteer to pay to guarantee your participation. You stripping down to skivvies and jumping into the water at the port might just be enough to make this the most lucrative public event the Foundation's ever had!"

The words 'give them their money back' had been perched on the tip of his tongue when a hand had tugged at his sleeve. Looking down, he'd found Dick's wide, beseeching stare. "Can I jump too? Pretty please?"

"What a lovely thought, Master Dick," Alfred put in as he sent Bruce a warning look. "You can do the plunge together, and all for a worthy cause."

And so now he found himself here, in a private changing hut not far from where two long boat slips had been cordoned off. There was no ice, as the Gotham River moved at a fast enough clip to keep it from forming in all but the shallowest eddies, but he knew the water was going to be cold. Why, he moaned to himself, why hadn't he asked for more details before he'd agreed to this?

The door opened, and Dick's head appeared. "Bruce? Ooh, it's warm in here." Stepping inside, he closed the world out. "What are you doing? We don't have to get ready for another thirty minutes! Don't you want to come enjoy the carnival before we get all wet?"

Bruce sighed. "I'll tell you a secret, chum."

"What is it?"

"I really don't want to do this at all."

The ten year old cocked his head to the side and frowned. "I knew you kind of didn't want to, but if it's that bad then why'd you say okay when you were asked to do it?"

"Because I was distracted and I didn't ask what the new event was. She didn't offer the details, either," he remembered. His eyes narrowed. "I wonder if she knew I'd say no if I understood what I would be expected to do."

"But you can't back out now! All those people who want to see you jump will ask for their money back, and it won't go to the Foundation!"

Bruce refrained from pointing out that most of the people who had volunteered to pay his entrance fee probably cared more about seeing him with very little clothing on than seeing him leap into the river. "I know," he said instead. "That's the only reason I'm going forward with it. That, and Alfred's wrath."

"Yeah, he'd be pretty mad if you tried to get out of it now."

"Yes, he would be. But you know, I don't think he'd mind if _you_ decided you didn't want to do it." The boy had been sick only a few weeks before, after all, and while he was healthy now Alfred wasn't likely to object if he sat out.

"But I _do_ want to do it! I think it'll be neat. Besides," Dick dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Isn't it…you know…good training?"

"Yes, but…" But why jump into freezing cold water any more than was absolutely necessary? Maybe it was a just a novelty thing that Dick needed to do once in order to get over, he thought. Maybe next year they could come to the carnival but keep their feet warm, dry, and on the ground. "…Never mind."

Dick grabbed his hand. "C'mon," he urged. "We still have time, and I know something that will cheer you up. It was supposed to be a surprise for the actual jump, but I think you need it now."

"So long as the surprise isn't that I have to jump twice."

"It's not," Dick giggled as he pulled him towards the door. "Let's go!"

After several minutes of crowd-searching, Bruce spotted his surprise. Rather than improving his mood, however, it soured it. "…Is my surprise that Clark's here?" he asked Dick.

"Shh! He's here under an alias," the boy informed him. "His name's Robert Clark today. He's going to jump, too!"

"…Fabulous."

Clark raised one hand in a wave as they approached. "Hello, Bruce. Dick, I see you found him. Where was he hiding?"

"In our changing booth. I thought he needed his surprise early, so I dragged him out of there."

"Good idea." Clark began to scan the swarms of people moving about the shore. "The others should be around here somewhere…"

"What others?" Bruce asked suspiciously.

"Them!" Dick said, pointing eagerly as a small knot of people moved towards them. "We're all going to jump together in the first round! Isn't that exciting?"

Bruce nearly let out a groan as Diana, Barry, and Wally drew to within earshot. "It's…unexpected," he ground out. "They all have-?"

"Yup," Barry nodded. "Don't worry about remembering them, though. Pretty soon our teeth will be chattering too hard for anyone to understand what names you call us."

"I'll keep that in mind," Bruce said dourly.

"Hey, Dick," Wally piped up. "I've got five bucks. Let's go get cotton candy. They had the blue stuff you like at this one booth I saw."

"Cool! Can I go, Bruce?"

"Don't worry," Barry interjected before Bruce could reply. "I'll keep up with them. Let's go, boys; leave the fifty-megaton billionaire to the peacemakers."

Bruce glared after the speedster as he hustled the children away. "He did _not_ just call me-"

"Exactly what you're on the verge of acting like?" Diana reached out and patted his arm. "Relax, Bruce. We're here to support you, not make things worse. Don't be upset with us for wanting to make today easier."

"Who invited you here?"

"Dick," Clark answered with a knowing look.

Of course it had been the one person he couldn't bring himself to be mad at. Alfred had had a hand in it as well, Bruce was certain, but that was beside the point. "Dick managed to talk you all into this insanity?"

"Yes," Diana smiled. "Although I don't think participating in something for charity qualifies as insanity."

"It does when you're jumping into an icy river. Not that that will bother some of us," Bruce added pointedly.

"At least you won't be standing in a bathing suit amongst strangers," Clark shrugged. "That's worth something, isn't it?"

Bruce gave up. There were several things he could have been mad about besides the fact that he would now be playing sex idol for people who _weren't_ total unknowns – the security risk of four JLA members standing in a group together at a highly publicized event leaped to mind – but he didn't have the energy. Dick had planned this because he wanted him to be something less than miserable today, and if that was what his boy wanted then Bruce would do his best to deliver. "I suppose it could be worse."

"Ah, I see you're all still together," Alfred's voice washed over them suddenly. "Very good. It's nearly time to change for the plunge; if you'll all follow me back to the hut, please?"

"Wait," Bruce frowned. "Where's Dick?"

"He is there already, sir, and devouring as much sugar as he can before the jump. With any luck it will give him so much extra energy that he'll warm up faster once you all come out of the water. Now, then…shall we?"

Bruce took a deep breath and tried to dampen the annoyance he was feeling towards everything in the world. "Yeah, Alfred. We're ready. Lead the way."

* * *

"See you in a few, Bruce," Clark bade with a pitying look as he filed out of the hut behind the others a short while later.

"Mm." As soon as the door shut he wheeled on Alfred, who was still fully clothed. "I can't believe you didn't tell me I was being introduced separately," he snarled. What little equanimity he'd managed to gain since finding out about his 'surprise' was long gone, blown away by the announcement that he was to be offered up as a stand-alone visual appetizer to the citizens of Gotham.

"I thought you might revolt, Master Wayne," Alfred replied. "And it appears that I was correct. That being the case, it is fortunate that I did _not_ share that particular detail with you. But in my own defense I would point out that I was only informed of the matter an hour or so ago."

"First all of them being here," Bruce steamed, "and now this."

Alfred sighed. "Sir, I know this isn't going to be pleasant for you. Frankly I think it was rather underhanded of Ms. Jefferson to not tell you all of the details before we got to this point-"

"You didn't seem to feel that way when you were smirking over that handbill a couple months ago," Bruce retorted.

"-but unfortunately there's nothing we can do about it now," the butler continued in a taut voice. "So you're just going to have to pander to the crowd for now and decide later what, if anything, you'll do in regards to Ms. Jefferson. If nothing else you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that this fundraiser is now officially the highest grossing public event in the Foundation's history, and," he tacked on as he handed over a long, fluffy bathrobe, "with the fact that you can cover up a bit for your walk down the red carpet."

"Thank _Christ_ for that. Wait…did you just say red carpet?"

Alfred winced. "I'm afraid I had no control over it, sir."

"There's not really a red carpet. Tell me there's not-" A _thump_ against the bottom of the door cut him off. "…Shit."

"I believe that was them rolling it out for you, Master Wayne. Be sure to step over the excess when you leave; it sounds as if there's quite a bit of it out there."

"Alfred-"

"There's no need to apologize for your language, sir. What you're about to go through is more than enough punishment."

Apologizing hadn't even been on his mind – he thought his language had been mild, considering the situation – but there was no time for him to argue. " _And now,_ " a clearly audible announcement rang out somewhere beyond the door, " _here to kick off the first annual Wayne Foundation Polar Bear Plunge, is the man you've all been waiting for; businessman, philanthropist, and Gotham's Most Eligible Bachelor, Bruuuuce Waaaayne!"_

The cheering outside sounded mostly feminine, and Bruce pulled his bathrobe tighter. He had nothing to be ashamed of in regards to his body, and what scars Alfred couldn't mask with waterproof makeup all had civilian backstories that had been known to the public for years, but that wasn't the point. His insular, private nature extended to include his physical person, and now he was stuck taking his clothes off in front of the entire city. "This is unbelievable," he muttered.

"Grin and bear it, Master Wayne," Alfred advised as he steered him to the door. "It's the best thing you can do, and it will be over soon."

The door swung open, revealing a red carpet that stretched all the way to where the rest of the first group of jumpers, among them his son and friends, were shuffling their flip-flopped feet. Spectators were stacked ten deep on both sides of the walkway, and their roar rose louder than ever when he became visible. Flashbulbs went off in all directions. Every ounce of acting practice he'd ever had rose within him, overriding his embarrassment and causing a broad smile to unfurl on his face. It was utterly fake, but the audience loved it. Fixing his gaze on everyone and no one at the same time, he raised one hand in a wave and began his long walk to the water.

* * *

"That-t-t-t was great!" Dick chattered from beneath three blankets ten minutes later.

"It was certainly cold," Bruce said. "…Scoot closer to the heater, chum. You'll stop shivering faster."

"You were quite the ham out there, Bruce," Diana commented. "I was impressed you went along with…well. With the red carpet and everything."

"I didn't know about it, or I assure you I wouldn't have."

"I can't believe you rallied like you did," Clark grinned as he toweled off his hair. "I thought you were going to be a Grinch based on the look you were wearing right before we all headed outside."

"I'd just been informed that I would be walking through crowds of people who had apparently paid to see me take my clothes off. Did you expect me to be happy about it?"

His chattering calmer, Dick jumped back into the conversation. "That part was mean. They should have let us all come out in one group. We can make sure we all go out in one group next year, can't we, Bruce?"

Bruce had zero intentions of being anywhere in the vicinity of next year's Polar Bear Plunge, but he knew better than to drop that news on the boy right now. "It won't be like this year, I promise you that. No matter how much Gotham's leading ladies might be willing to pay to see me in a bathing suit."

"But you gave them such a great show," Barry joked. "I would _swear_ I saw you flexing out there."

"You'd do well to rescind that remark," said Bruce.

"Aaand I'll be moving out of punching range now."

"Not for long, I'm afraid, Mr. Allen," Alfred informed him as he slipped through the door. "I see you're all changed, and the car is waiting for you all."

Bruce blinked in confusion. "…Alfred, we brought a sedan down this morning. We won't all fit in that. And where are we all supposed to be going, besides?"

"It's another surprise!" Dick chortled.

"What?"

"I had a hired driver bring down one of the limousines and take back the sedan," the butler explained. "Master Dick thought it would be nice to have a little Christmas party at home since your friends were already going to be in town, and the limousine seemed like an excellent way to get things started."

"Yeah! And we're going to have hot cocoa and listen to Christmas music on the way home! Isn't that awesome, Bruce?"

"Can we really go?" Wally asked hopefully. "I've never been in a limo before."

"Seriously?" Dick's eyes went wide as he threw off his blankets. "Bro, they're so cool! C'mon, I'll show you!" With that, the boys scampered past Alfred and outside.

"Dick-" Bruce called after him.

"I can see them from here, sir," Alfred soothed. "They've made it to the car, and I don't expect they'll leave it in the thirty seconds or so it should take the rest of us to join them."

"So are we actually going, then?" Barry inquired. "Bruce, you're not going to shun us all for showing up to watch you strut your stuff?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the speedster, but there was no real malice in the look. For all that this day had gone anything but according to plan, there were far worse ways for it to end than with a small get-together at home. His charity obligation had been successfully fulfilled, there was cocoa in the car – cocoa with a little something extra in the adult servings, if he knew Alfred – and while a party would require him to entertain for a few more hours at least he wouldn't have to do so with his ridiculous 'Brucie' grin on his lips. "…Just get in the car before I change my mind, Barry."

"Great! I've never been in a limo, either. Maybe I can catch the tail end of Dick's tour…" And then he, too, was gone.

"I don't need a tour," Clark laughed, "but can I come too? Hot cocoa and Christmas music sounds like a pretty good time."

"It really does, Bruce," Diana added.

Sighing, Bruce stood up. "If we're going to go, then let's _go_ ," he said, waving them out ahead of him. "…Hey, Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"Do me a favor-"

"There's already a double shot in your thermos, sir."

"…This is why I keep you around even when you laugh at me accidentally volunteering to jump into the river in the dead of winter."

"Oh, come now, Bruce," Alfred winked as he pulled the door shut behind them and started towards the limousine. "You can hardly fault me for laughing at something so blatantly amusing as you being promoted as a sex icon for charity, even if it did go a bit too far in the end. And if you do blame me, I'm sure you'll forgive my transgression before too much time has passed. After the cocoa, perhaps."

"We'll see about that," Bruce said, but the corners of his lips were twitching.

"Very good, sir. Very good indeed."


	23. The Grandest Illumination

**Author's Note: It's a short and sweet piece featuring all the boys today. It's worth noting that this is set during the first December after Bruce's return from being 'dead' and Tim's subsequent return to Gotham.**

 **Tomorrow we'll start a two-parter Christmas Eve/Christmas Day special that will star Batman and Robin as they work to rescue Santa from Arkham Asylum. Happy reading!**

* * *

"Why did you pick _this_ stupid roof, Nightwing?" Robin grumbled. "We're miles away from everything!"

" _A_ mile, maybe," Red Robin countered. "Probably not even."

"There are still a hundred better roofs we could be on for this."

"Careful, or you might start to sound like you care about something having to do with Christmas."

"You know what, you can just-"

Batman cut them off with a warning growl. "Boys." Then he turned to Nightwing. "...Robin has a point. We're further away than usual."

"Sure we are," Nightwing nodded. "But look. Here we can see the plaza," he pointed to a semi-dark square in the shadow of downtown Gotham's megalithic skyscrapers, "and we can see the bridge, too. We be able to watch the entire Mile of Lights go on instead of just the portion we normally see."

"See? It makes sense," Red Robin backed him up. "But I have to admit that I don't like how close to Red Hood's territory we are."

Robin snorted. "What, do you think he's going to attack you with all the rest of us standing here?"

"Robin," Batman reined the boy in again. "That's enough."

"I'm just saying we're close," Red Robin repeated himself. "That's all."

"I'm sorry if it bugs you," said Nightwing, "but it really is the best seat in the house." It was also where he'd told Jason they would be tonight, although none of the others knew that. Watching Gotham's Grand Illumination was a family Christmas tradition, and Nightwing remembered all too well when the second Robin had stood between him and Batman and waited for the lights to come on. He had no idea if Jason still liked to hunker down on a rooftop to see the celebration, but he'd extended an invitation and an address just in case. Now that Bruce and Tim were both back the only thing that could elevate Dick's holidays any further would be for his entire family to be together tonight, even if it was only for a quarter of an hour.

Several minutes passed as they unpacked the goodies Alfred had stashed in their belts. Cookies appeared, then a few pieces of hard candy each. Last of all were their flasks, which had been filled with cocoa rather than the usual water. When everything was spread out and they'd all found a perch on the edge of the roof, Robin gave an amused little _tsk_. "What if some villain saw us right now?" he smirked. "Sitting here in a line with cookies and staring out over the city?"

"Like some sort of bizarre Norman Rockwell painting," Red Robin chuckled. "It would blow their mind."

"Or give them a leg up on blowing out yours."

Everyone whipped around at the sound of a new voice. Nightwing had to bite back a joyful cry when he saw who was standing behind them. "…Hood," he smiled instead. "You're just in time." He patted the concrete beside him. "Grab a seat."

"I'm not staying."

"Why not? Here…" Nightwing reached into his belt and pulled out a plastic bag containing more cookies and candy. "These are for you. Courtesy of Agent A."

Red Hood's hand twitched as if it wanted to reach for the treats, then went still. "You didn't tell me it would be anyone but you," he ground out.

"I told you the invitation was for the Illumination. Honestly, what did you expect?"

"Not for you to pull something this underhanded," Hood shot back. "But I guess I should have known you'd try some sort of reconciliation scheme. Typical."

The tone of Red Hood's words hurt more than the words themselves, and Nightwing felt his eyes grow hot behind his mask. His upset must have shown in the set of his mouth, because another voice rose in his defense. "Nobody asked you to reconcile with anyone," Red Robin challenged. "My guess is that Nightwing invited you because this is always a family event, not because he had some ulterior motive."

Red Hood made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, and I'm family, am I?"

"Yeah, actually," Red Robin replied heatedly. "Maybe if you'd been paying attention you would have noticed that a long time ago."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"…You never stop being a Robin, Hood. No matter how hard you might try, or how much you might think you _want_ to stop…you can't. Being Robins is our common blood, and that means that regardless of how little we might like each other, we're still family."

"Thought you didn't want to reconcile," came a sneer.

"I wasn't attempting to reconcile with you. I was attempting to share the facts with you."

"Yeah, well, fu-"

"Stop it," Nightwing said softly before the expletive could finish leaving his brother's mouth. "…Just stop it, Hood. Red Robin's right. I didn't invite you because I thought we'd all leave here the best of friends if I did. I might be sappy, but I like to think I'm not stupid.

"No, I invited you because after everything that's happened over the last couple of years I thought it would be nice if we could all be in the same general area for fifteen minutes without killing each other. I didn't think it was much to ask, but clearly it isn't possible even if it is Christmastime and we're on the most neutral ground I could come up with. If you don't want to be here just because they're here, then fine. You're an adult; do what you want." He tossed the bag of cookies and candy to Red Hood, who caught them out of what Nightwing could only assume was habit. "But at least take those with you so Agent A's feelings aren't hurt. None of this is his fault, after all."

With that he turned away and looked out over the city. In a matter of moments the plaza and the main road leading from it all the way to the bridge would burst into light, but he no longer really cared.

"…Nightwing?" Batman leaned over Robin to ask in an uncharacteristically gentle whisper.

He shook his head and sniffled. "Let's just watch the lights, okay?"

A gauntleted hand closed on his shoulder for a brief moment. "All right."

For a second there was no noise save the soft whistling of the low breeze. Then a hesitant footstep sounded behind him. Nightwing didn't turn around, and a second step followed the first. There was a flash of color in his peripheral field as a pair of legs was swung over the edge of the building. Red Hood was fully seated beside him before he finally looked over. "…Hey, little brother," he said, sniffling louder than before.

"Your tears are assholes, Nightwing. So knock it off with them already."

"At least now they're happy tears."

"Still assholes."

He gave him a wavering smile. "Sure." Leaning forward, he glanced down the line. Red Robin, Batman, Robin, himself, and Red Hood, all sitting together like birds on a wire. Now, he thought, they really were like a bizarre Norman Rockwell painting. Only Alfred lurking in a corner could have made the picture more complete.

" _Three_ ," came to his ears on the wind.

"Watch, it'll overload the power grid and the whole city will black out," Red Hood predicted.

" _Two_ …"

"It never did that before," Nightwing countered.

" _One_ …"

"Guess we'll see."

A massive cheer rose from the distant plaza as the lights were switched on and a panoply of colors erupted on every tree and light pole along the Illumination's route. "Nice," Red Robin commented.

"It's better than last year's, at least," Robin said.

Nightwing pried his tear-blurred gaze away from the display and turned it back onto Red Hood. "Hey, Hood?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You were right."

"Thanks, but I was going to say that this is the best Grand Illumination I've ever seen."

Red Hood stared at him for a moment, then looked out over Gotham again. "…Don't get sappy, Nightwing," he said in a slightly hoarse voice.

"I won't if you stay for the fireworks, too."

"I'm still sitting here, aren't I?"

That was enough of a promise to bring a broad smile to Nightwing's face. "Yes you are," he confirmed. And that simple fact, he thought to himself, was the best Christmas present he'd ever received.


	24. An Unexpected Visitor

**Author's Note: I know we're running late on this series due to my being sick over the Christmas weekend, but I'd like to finish it off with a couple of New Year's tales instead of the Santa story I previously mentioned. That being said, here is a piece from Alfred's POV that centers on the old 'first-foot' tradition that's held to in some parts of England and elsewhere in the world.**

 **I am also very pleased to announce the launch of my website featuring my original fiction. All of those stories are and will continue to be free to read, so I hope you'll venture over to jleehazlett dot com and check it out. There's only a few things there right now, but beginning with this month I will be posting one original short story concurrently with a new piece of fan fiction. My Batman blog, Fanon Fanatic, has also been relocated to my new site, so keep your eyes peeled for new extra content to go along with upcoming fan fiction stories.**

 **Happy New Year, and happy reading!**

* * *

Midnight had passed, and the new year had begun. As Alfred surveyed his quietly buzzing brood, a soft smile ventured across his lips. The boys were gathered around the exquisite chess board on which generations of Waynes had learned to play. All three of them already knew the rules, but Dick was whispering advice into Damian's ear anyway. While the youngest of the trio would never admit it, he probably did need the help. He was playing against Tim, after all, who held the family record for most times checkmating Bruce. Without assistance he might have been trounced, and Alfred didn't want to see the new year ushered in with a fraternal fistfight.

Bruce himself was pressed far back into an armchair, his feet up, one hand wrapped loosely around his Champagne. Each time one of his sons made a well-advised move he lifted his glass and sipped. Alfred suspected that this pattern was a ruse to cover up a pleased smirk, but he couldn't be certain. Bruce had become too good at subterfuge over the years, and the butler was at an age when even the most well-honed of senses begin to dull. In the end he supposed it didn't matter why the crystal flute rose with such regularity so long as his charges were content.

Not all of Alfred's old tricks had worn out yet, though, and consequently he sensed that they weren't alone in the house before anyone else did. Perhaps he was alerted by the faint breeze that whispered through the downstairs hallways whenever the clock was closed over its secret passageway; perhaps it was some primordial protective instinct that picked up the presence of another living being inside his domain. Whatever it was, it dropped his smile into a faint frown and drove him into the corridor.

"...Mister Kent," he greeted with surprise when he met the intruder in the foyer. There were very few people who could waltz into the house unannounced and receive a warm welcome, and Clark was one of them. "What a lovely surprise. We missed you at Christmas dinner." The Kryptonian's arms were full of boxes and bags, and Alfred reached forward to unburden him. "Please, allow me."

"Sorry about the unexpected arrival," Clark apologized as they started back towards the formal living room. "I didn't know I'd be back tonight, and I wanted to bring these things by as soon as I could. Some of them are perishable, and I know Dick would be disappointed if his black pears went bad before he got any."

Alfred cast a dubious look at the gaily wrapped packages in his hands. "Black pears, Mister Kent?"

"It's all off-world foods. I've been on about twenty planets since I left a couple of weeks ago, and when I realized I was going to miss Christmas I thought I'd try to make up for it. Nothing I can get on Earth compares with your cooking, but some of this stuff is pretty good."

"You flatter me, sir. You also worry me; off-world food or not, a black pear simply doesn't sound edible."

Clark chuckled. "I'll let you take that up with Dick. He loves them."

Alfred thought it strange that the most open of all his boys wouldn't have shared the existence of a favorite food with him. Then he decided that it must have been an issue of availability. Dick knew that Alfred did everything in his power to keep up a steady supply of things that he liked, and off-world foods would be nigh unobtainable. Rather than send him on a wild goose chase, the younger man had likely chosen to keep his preferences secret.

It was Dick who first noticed them coming into the room. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "Uncle Clark's here!"

"Here late," came a laconic rejoinder from Bruce's chair.

"It wasn't my idea, I promise," Clark replied. "But I brought a peace offering anyway." Taking a bag from Alfred, the Kryptonian crossed the room and dropped it into Bruce's lap. "Merry late Christmas, or happy New Year. Whatever you prefer."

"What do you say, Bruce?" Dick jested. "Can he stay?"

"...A bottle of Jivesech that's older than I am is an olive branch I'm prepared to accept," the billionaire answered as he examined his gift. "He can stay."

Dick's eyes widened. "Wait. If you brought Jivesech, then that means-"

"That you were on the planet with those weird peaches Dick likes," Tim finished.

"Right!" said Dick. "So, ah...I don't suppose...?"

Clark chuckled and held up another bag. "Relax, pal. Your peaches are right here. There's something for everyone, actually, and a few extra things that I figured you'd all like."

"I'll make room for everything over here," Alfred put in. Handing his load of gifts back to Clark, he moved to the table he'd filled with an assortment of foods earlier in the evening. The meat and cheese trays were depleted enough that he could combine them, and that plus a little re-arranging left plenty of space for the new things. "...Master Wayne? Shall I pour you some of your...whatever it was?" He seemed to recall having heard the name before tonight, but its pronunciation was so foreign to his tongue that he didn't want to risk it.

"Yes. But you'll need wooden cups to do it right."

"Wooden cups, sir?" Alfred thought hard, but he was certain they had no such things in the house. "Is there a reason crystal won't suffice?"

"Jivesech comes from fermented tree bark," Bruce explained. "You can drink it from something other than wood, but the flavor won't be right."

"Don't worry," Clark broke in before Alfred could voice his regrets about their lack of appropriate vessels. "I've never known you to not be able to come with whatever was needed, Alfred, but I had a sneaking suspicion that wooden cups were one of the few things you might not have tucked away in a cupboard. So I brought these." He lifted the lid from a box to reveal a set of pale green chalices.

"Ooh, those are the good ones," Dick sighed as he peered at the gift. "Real Wreknect wood?"

"Drinking Jivesech wouldn't be the same if it wasn't," Clark verified.

"Alfred, pour a cup for everyone," Bruce requested. "Yourself, too, if you want. Damian can have a quarter-cup. Jivesech's alcoholic, but this is a special occasion and he won't be able to drink it off-world for a few more years still."

"Do we dare keep this stuff in the house?" Tim asked from beneath knit eyebrows. "I mean tonight's fine, obviously, but I can't see us eating everything in one sitting."

"Who's going to come over and see who doesn't already know what we do, Drake?" Damian scoffed. "Besides, we're rich and people are stupid. If someone who doesn't know _does_ see something, just tell them it's from an obscure country and act like it's not a big deal. They'll be too intimidated to ask for details."

"I can hide anything terribly suspect in the depths of the kitchen, Master Tim," Alfred promised. So long as nothing Clark had brought required an unfamiliar storage routine, he was confident he could disguise any leftovers.

"...Okay," Tim shrugged. Then he turned back to the chessboard and moved a piece. "Checkmate."

Damian's expression was instantly stormy. "What?! Grayson! Explain this!"

"You lost, Dami. Sorry. Here," Dick offered him an unopened box. "This one's got your name on it."

The boy regarded it warily. "But I've never been off-world with you," he addressed Clark, "and Grayson clearly didn't know you were bringing food. How did you know what I'd like?"

"I didn't," the Kryptonian confessed. "Which is why I got you what I got you."

Damian's present, it turned out, was an assortment of alien sweets. Some of them were bizarre to Alfred's eyes – at least one compartment appeared to be filled with jelly bites that had sprouted tentacles – but others looked normal enough. It was to one of the more innocuous pods that Dick pointed in warning. "Eat those ones slow, Dami. Like, no more than two a day kind of slow. That's going to be tough, because they taste like chocolate-covered strawberries are exploding in your mouth, but your intestines will hate you if you overdo it with them."

A spark of interest appeared in Damian's gaze. "Dangerous candy," he said with a shallow nod of approval. "Not bad."

"Mister Kent," Alfred asked in a low voice as Tim tore the wrapping from his own gift, "I mean no offense, but are you certain these items are all safe for human consumption?"

"Don't worry," Clark promised. "I wouldn't bring them anything that might cause real harm. You're the only one here who hasn't had at least some of this stuff before, and I've personally witnessed humans eating everything I brought. The worst thing that might happen is that Damian spends a couple of days locked in the bathroom if he goes overboard with the candy Dick pointed out to him. Or with the purple one," he frowned. "He should eat that one slow, too."

Alfred still wasn't sure he was comfortable with so many unusual items going into his charges' stomachs, but so long as none of them would be damaged by what they were consuming he would try to keep his concerns to himself. There were moments when that proved difficult – when he poured out the Jivesech, for example, and the wooden cups began to give off a dense almond-scented smoke – but he maintained his countenance as best he could. Relief swelled in his gut when Tim's present proved to be an assortment of nuts. A few of the selections were shaded with absurd fuchsias and turquoises, and one seemed to glow faintly in the dusky light of the room, but at least he could take solace in the normal-looking ones. That solace was brought to an abrupt end, however, when Tim pitched what looked like almonds into his mouth and let out a pleased groan. "...I'm always disappointed when I eat Earth almonds and they don't taste like a super-smoky ham," he said. "Ham should seriously be a crunchy food."

"Like a potato chip," Dick put in around a mouthful of pear. True to its name, the fruit's flesh was a deep, ashen gray. Alfred couldn't decide whether he was intrigued or disgusted. On the one hand Dick was plainly enjoying his treat, but on the other what he was eating seemed to have some strange disease.

"No, I like the sweetness that you get in the nut form. A potato chip would be too salty."

"Those are Corick nuts, aren't they?" Bruce inquired from behind his still-smoking chalice.

"Yeah," Tim replied.

"Mm. I always thought they'd be good as a cracker."

"I wonder if you could grind Coricks into flour and use them to make a really crusty bread," Dick mused.

"They do that," Clark shared. "In this little city I hadn't been to until this mission, actually."

"Is it good?"

"I didn't try it."

"Aww..." Dick's face fell, then brightened again. "Now we have something to look forward to the next time _we_ get sent off-world, Timmy. We can try to find the Corick bread!"

"Sounds good to me. Bruce?"

"So long as it isn't too far from our mission base. We're not making side trips halfway across the universe just for a loaf of bread."

"Dami?" Dick turned to his youngest brother. "You in on this?"

Damian swallowed the tentacle-jelly he'd been chewing on for five minutes. "Carick nuts are disgusting. They taste like old sweat."

"You would be the one who dislikes them," Tim sighed.

"Don't worry, Timmy. He'll come around. I didn't like Caricks the first time I tried them, either, and I was Dami's age then." Dick stuck out his tongue suddenly and caught a drip of smog-colored juice before it could run off of his peach and onto the rug. "This is a great New Year, Uncle Clark," he said after he'd ended its break for freedom. "Thanks for all the amazing edibles."

A general consensus went around that the Kryptonian's appearance had been a good thing. Alfred agreed half-heartedly, torn between two powerful emotions. His family was happy, and he didn't begrudge Clark's inclusion in their joy whatsoever. What he did begrudge, though, was his own feeling of ostracism. Earlier, when everything had been chess and Champagne and quiet cheer, he had been in his element. Now the talk was all based around places and topics he had no knowledge of. Standing silently in the back of conversations that he knew all the details of was one thing, but listening to debates that he had no context for was something else altogether. It made him feel a bit stupid, if he wanted to be honest with himself. He was the only person in the room who had never gone further from Earth than the Watchtower, and for the first time he realized that there was a canyon of ignorance between himself and his charges when it came to things of an extraterrestrial nature.

But there was no point in feeling sorry for himself. He wasn't likely to travel to another planet any time soon, but he could still take advantage of tonight's smorgasbord to broaden his range of knowledge and – if he could bring himself to chance putting any of Clark's gifts in his mouth – his palate. It was for that reason that he took Dick's elbow in his hand when the younger man approached for a refill of Jivesech. "Tell me, young sir; are those awful-looking pears you're eating as good as you seem to think they are?"

Dick's mouth opened in surprise. "Oh! Alfred, I'm sorry. You've never tried any of this stuff, have you?"

"No, Master Dick, but to be honest with you I'm happy to skip anythings with tentacles."

"You're missing out. Those tentacle-candies of Dami's taste like cookies and cream. I have no idea how that's possible, but it is what it is. Here," he said, and pressed a smoking chalice into Alfred's hand. "You try this while I make you a sampler plate. Don't worry, I won't give you anything too out there. Be right back."

Alfred's forehead creased as he regarded his drink. It wasn't hot despite the opaque steam rising from its surface, but he couldn't help imagining that it might burn a hole in his esophagus. Still, it was scented pleasantly enough, and no one else had been sent into fits by it. He let a little wash over his tongue, which picked out licorice, cherry blossoms, and something piney. The concoction left an oily sheen on his teeth that crept up to his gum line and began to prickle. There was only the faintest of alcoholic burns in his throat after he'd swallowed, and nothing more than a gentle warmth in his stomach after that. For all that it was fermented from the bark of a tree native to a foreign planet, Jivesech was downright quaffable.

Much of what Dick brought him back to nibble on was equally delectable. Alfred had a few of the ham-nuts that the others had been talking about, and even dared to sample the black pears. The fruit's moist body relayed a tart mint flavor to his taste buds that would have been too strong were it not for the undertones of umami that came with it. He couldn't fathom how that was possible, since to his knowledge no fruit on Earth was a source of umami, but after his second bite he let the question go. The thing was good, and that was what mattered. In that moment, he didn't feel quite so cut off anymore.

The room fell silent as everyone present filled their stomachs to maximum capacity. Looking around at the sated expressions on the faces of his charges, Alfred decided that he owed Clark a real thanks for the unusual gifts he'd given them. "I am reminded, Mister Kent," he began, "of an old tradition that you brought back tonight."

Clark stirred in the seat he'd taken up near Bruce. For all that he had no physical need to sleep there was a slight droop to his eyelids, and Alfred made a mental note to offer him his usual guest room before it grew much later. "What tradition is that, Alfred?"

"The first-foot tradition. It is a superstition in some areas, parts of England included, that the first person who walks through the front door after midnight on New Year's Day is a harbinger of the family's luck for the coming months."

"Does the cave count as a front door?" Tim wondered idly.

"Why not?" Dick replied with a yawn. "We go in and out of the house through there just as often as we do the actual front door. More often, maybe. Go on, Alfred."

"Oh, there's not much more to it really, Master Dick. Just that the first-foot tends to bring gifts, often food and drink, all of which have their own associations of health and good fortune and other such things."

"What do you think tentacle candy is associated with?" Dick joked.

"I don't know that I care to imagine, Master Dick. The point is that Mister Kent happens to fit the description of the ideal first-foot in the regions whose superstitions I'm familiar with, and he happened to bring relatively traditional first-foot gifts with him tonight. That being said," he inclined his head, "thank you, Mister Kent, for bringing us not only the materials for an interesting New Year's night but also, one must hope, good luck for the coming year. Both of those presents are very much appreciated."

Clark smiled. "Any time, Alfred. Happy to do it." He raised his drink. "Here's to a healthy and happy New Year for all of us."

"Here here," Alfred agreed heartily. "...Goodness, but that liquor does go down easily."

"Looks like it put Dami to sleep," Dick remarked as he gestured down at the boy leaning against his knees.

"We should follow his example," Bruce suggested.

"Yeah...I'd better be on my way," Clark said, rising from his seat.

"Won't you stay the night?" Alfred offered. "Your room is made up, as always, and you'd be welcome at breakfast in the morning."

"You don't want to miss New Year's breakfast," Dick advised. "There might not be any off-world food on the buffet, but there's guaranteed to be pretty much anything else you can think of."

"Well when you put it that way, how can I refuse? That okay with you, Bruce?"

"I don't care," the billionaire opined as he, too, stood. "It's three in the morning, and I'm going to bed. If I see you later, I'll see you. If I don't, it's your loss. Dick's right; Alfred's New Year's breakfasts are excellent."

Dick nudged Damian into wakefulness then, and they all filed out of the living room and towards the stairs. Alfred stopped Clark as the Kryptonian made to follow the others. "Is there anything special I need to do to preserve what you brought?" he asked. "I wouldn't want your gifts to go bad due to my ignorance."

"I think if you throw the pears and Jivesech in the fridge they'll be fine overnight. Everything else should be okay if you just cover it. Oh, I almost forgot..." Clark reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a small, flat package. "I got so busy giving everyone else their presents that I never gave you yours. Here."

"...For me, Mister Kent?"

"Yeah. I know you don't have the off-world experience that the rest of them do, but I thought you might like this anyway. It's a tea that comes from the same tree as the Jivesech. They make the tea from the leaves and the booze from the bark. The taste is similar, but without the alcoholic effect."

"What a useful little plant," Alfred breathed as he took his gift.

"It's not so little, actually – it reaches maturity at a height of about seven hundred feet. The oldest ones are half a mile high. But it is useful." Clark smiled. "Good night, Alfred. I'll see you at breakfast."

"You will, Mister Kent. And thank you again." When he woke he would postpone his cooking long enough to sample his new tea. After all, he thought as Clark vanished into the corridor, what better way could there be to start a new year than welcoming an unexpected visitor from another world?


End file.
